hoop dancer
bruce cockburn
tokyo jetlag evening walking
out of my throat appears this chuckle
a true 20th century sound
a little crazed and having no tonal centre
the echoes of this laugh fade for a long time
snaking among those jumbled pedestrians
following that struggling cedric taxicab
sliding over the seeming infinity of white light and neon
mind's eye winks like a lifespan
and opens again on memory flash of prairie indian
and flare of bright feathers
surrounded by white faces
floating on a sea of mind
hoop dancer struts in front
drum and voices blend with endless rain
cutting through figures shuffling on horizontal plane
cutting through the survival pride of the dancers
sentimental warmth of the crowd
through to some essence common to us
to perhaps descendants numberless. or few
where it intersects the space at hand
this shaman with the hoops stands
aligned like living magnetic needle between deep past and looming future
butterfly pierced on each drum beat
energy circle delineated by leaping limbs
1st man last man dancing man man dancing
hoops in hand trampled grass circle spreading
voices flame above crazy coyote heartbeat drum
i see sunrise on the plains big river at dusk
perpetual pillar of dust on prairie rim and always overhead
he's the earth he's the egg he's the eagle always circling
always comes back to the centre
now transparent feet touch down on anaconda
streets and on the next leap dissolve slowly into the moving lights
and just beyond the clatter and cars the last long notes of wild voices ring