By Cadence Cedars
At dusk by the river, we wander,
Swans ripple in the stream.
Auntie calls, her voice like mist,
Whispering through our quiet dream.
Kneeling low, she speaks of times,
When fish traps caught the night.
Little people, hidden folk,
Would steal by fading light.
Ircinrrat have their own light.
They dance where shadows roam.
We listen close as spirits hum,
In lands that we call home.
She rises slow, her stories fade,
As stars begin to gleam.
We walk behind her, quiet now—
Carried by the dream.
