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.