✨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.