Moon & Rattlesnake 🌙

✨A Creek poetic legend of grief, betrayal, and the songs of serpents✨

They say she used to walk among us. The Moon.

Not just a light in the sky, but a woman with silver skin and a voice like river lullabies… low and lonesome, full of secrets. She moved like dusk, soft and sure, carrying the scent of magnolia and mourning.

And lawd, she loved that man. A warrior carved from cedar and fire, with a jaw that could slice lies in two and eyes that saw too much.

She gave him her light. Wrapped it ‘round his shoulders like a shawl stitched from starlight and bone. Sang to his scars, bathed his rage in quiet. She believed him even when his truth came with splinters.

But one summer night, when the cypress were heavy with ghosts and the frogs held their breath, he laid his promises at another woman’s feet. He kissed her beneath the same moon that had once watched him swear forever.

And the Moon… she broke. 

Not with thunder. 

Not with fire. 

But with silence.

She turned her face away from the earth, packed her sorrow into shadow, and rose. High. Higher. Until she became untouchable. Cold, yes. But only because warmth cost too much.

And the Rattlesnake, her old protector… the one who once slept at her feet curled like a question… he watched her go. He slithered through the cane brake, traced her light on still water, and wept the only way he knew how: with song.

That’s why he rattles. Not to scare you. But to remember her. Every shake of his tail is a hymn. Every coil a memory. And when he rises to strike, it’s not rage… it’s grief. Because the Moon was his kin, his keeper, his queen. And she’s never coming back down.

So if you see him on the trail… don’t run. Don’t scream. Just bow your head and whisper:

“I, too, have loved someone who forgot my light.”

Selu 🌽

✨ Inspired by the Creek story of Selu—the first woman who gave corn to the people✨

She came with soft hands and a basket full of gold… not the kind men kill for, but the kind that feeds the soul.

They say she was not born but woven from river reeds, sun-warmed earth, and the breath of the Great Mother just after rain.

Her name was never whispered lightly. She was Selu .. Corn Woman. The one who could make the fields rise with a hum and a handful of prayer.

But the boys grew. And with their growing came doubt. They did not trust what they could not tame. They peeked behind the veil of her ritual, watched her magic, called it strange, called it wrong.

So she knelt, placed the corn in their hands, and said: 

“This is my body, and it will grow again.

But not from my touch- from yours.

With blood, with sweat, with respect.”

Then she laid herself down on the dirt that had always loved her, and from her body sprouted the first stalk. 

We ate her memory for generations. We plant her name in rows each spring. We remember her in every kernel, every mother’s lullaby, every woman who gives too much and asks for nothing but reverence.

Corn is not just a crop. It is her body… still feeding the ones who forgot how to say thank you.

The Wind 🌬️

✨a Creek tale✨

Long ago,

when thunder still walked barefoot

and the trees could speak your true name,

there came a flood

that swallowed the world’s breath.

Waters climbed the knees of the hills,

then the shoulders,

then the sky.

And our people,

the ones born of wind and bone,

had nowhere left to run.

But the birds…

oh, the birds.

They remembered.

They remembered the songs we sang to them,

the offerings left in winter,

the way our children watched them fly

and learned what freedom meant.

So the heron lifted our babies

on backs made for gliding.

The hawk circled overhead,

cutting paths through clouds.

The wren tucked seeds in her feathers,

carrying the promise of food

into a world reborn.

The Wind Clan was scattered

on the wings of mercy…

but not broken.

We listened to the breeze

and followed its hush

like a mother calling her child home.

We still do.

Even now,

when the wind changes

and the leaves dance without touching,

I press my ear to the air

and ask my ancestors:

Where do I go next?

And the birds answer,

not with words,

but with flight.

Sint Holo 🐍

✨Inspired by Creek tales of the Tie Snake, or Sint Holo: the horned water serpent✨

Beneath the mirror of the river, where minnows shimmer like lost prayers, he coils… ancient, sacred, adorned with antlers and a gaze that sees through bone.

We call him Sint Holo, the Horned Serpent. He is not a monster… he is a memory that never left the water.

They say the medicine women speak with him when the moon is sliced thin and the frogs hush their choir. He rises in dreams, bringing visions carved from cedar smoke and riddles that heal or haunt.

But he is not to be summoned lightly. He does not come for show. Disrespect his stream, pollute his pool, mock his magic …and sickness will come like a sudden wind.

Not as punishment. But as a reminder. Because the river listens. The spirit guards. And some truths swim too deep for the careless to grasp.

I saw him once… or something like him. Eyes like wet opals. Breath like fog. He didn’t speak, but I knew: some spirits don’t want your worship. They want your respect.

So I leave cornmeal at the spring and sing old songs when I walk near water. Not out of fear. Out of knowing.

Web of Fire 🕸️

✨Inspired by the Creek story of how fire was brought to the people✨

Before we had fire,

we had cold bones and long nights.

The wind bit through our woven blankets,

and the stars blinked without warmth.

But across the great water,

the Thunders hoarded heat…

a blaze locked in a distant land

guarded by claw and storm.

The bear tried.

Too heavy.

The fox tried.

Too sly.

The raven tried.

Too loud.

And then came Spider…

small as a whisper,

quiet as smoke.

They laughed at her thread,

mocked her woven bowl of silk.

But Spider was a weaver of miracles.

She spun patience,

stitched intention,

and cast her web across the waves.

She waited…

not for the perfect moment,

but for the right one.

And when it came,

she crept into the fire’s chamber,

cupped a coal in her silken bowl,

and carried it back

on legs barely meant for such glory.

She lit the first flame.

We danced.

We sang.

We cooked our stories into cornmeal and ash.

And to this day,

we teach our daughters:

Do not doubt the small ones.

Do not laugh at the quiet ones.

For it was the Spider

who brought us the sun.