they enter with a Grand March; ah, i see
Grand Entry is a Pow-Wow thing, after all
and here, Scottish regalia harkens back
to lands and eras far away in mist, well mixed
with modern ways and times. i have Astrid’s camera
digital shutters imitating whir and snap of yesteryear
i catch the weave as they wind a living Celtic knot.
I am not Scottish, except by association, and the retro-
active relatedness children offer us. I’m married in.
The dance goes round, and i recall the tipping point
when we started again; last November, the first
Round Dance ever in City Hall. Cree drummers
carrying the heartbeat, locating us, here, in our own
Old Land. I dream the day
when we have Pow Wow dance clubs
round the world. This will have to mean, though
that we are alive, and well, from Attawapiskat
to La Loche to the urban Rez and onward, that
we are citizens of the world, well heralded
with plenty, and dances to share, not as
a Hail Mary plea for recognition and respect, but
as a fierce and living, joyful adornment.