Good wishes, friends!
__This story... was scribbled in 1968, on a yellow legal pad. Now, as haibun, a -new- approach.


During the moon of the tree frogs, that time between the last melt of snow and when the ground flowers burst, we traveled to our camp of green leaves... our summer camp at the place of our ancestor's mounds.
   
      We Mahicans covered the wigwam poles with hides and cleared the fire pits, we removed the bark covers from the woodpiles, built fires to roast our food and redden the boil rocks; we hung the stew bags to boil. The paths to the river were cleared. Some Mahicans went to the fields to start the squash, the beans and maize, while others went to the waters to mend their traps and catch fresh fish. Some went to the forest's edge for partridge, and others to the river-swamps to gather lily roots and groundnuts for the stew. At the end of that first day's work, it seemed the people of the Housatonic... had never been away.
      I knew the faces of that night's firelight, faces that talked the stories of the Mahican people, faces of our history, of our comfort, faces of family and of the clan, familiar faces, the faces of time.  

green leaves
the tales of things that were
firelight

     Too old to work, the elders minded we, the too young to work, and like the clan dogs that dozed lazily in the heat of the closer sun, so did the elders. While they slumbered in that warmth I took my newly awakened dreams to the Housatonic, and there I mixed those dreams with the river's flow.
      A pool under the shadow of a great tree called to me, it snared my senses and drew them toward its depth. There, a face shown back, a strangers face, a nameless face, a visitor from a mysterious world of time and he stared at me with surprised fear in his eyes. I had frightened this water face, and he had frightened me. Common fear had become our common ally, and in an instant's daring I conquered my fear and reached out to touch the water face. As I stretched my arm across the river's pool, the  stranger's quivering hand reached upward and joined with mine; together we touched that face... as it hovered above the river's ancient sand and stone.

joining hands
in this common strength
a warm river

      After each summer's harvest we returned to our winter grounds, a mountain hollow that guarded us from that season's bitterness, a forest cove surrounded by great pines and laurel, and there, we were safe within that shield. Apart from the winter's snow and wind we were sheltered from the wicked breath of Hobbamono, the bringer of all evil.
      With each season's return to our camp of the green leaves, I wandered to the Housatonic and to the pool of the water face. The river, its hidden pool and the great tree, the ancient sand and stone, all remained as the were. Only the face was the changer, it was forever, never as it was, and I was its captive... bound to this water face by its changes; changes that happened, it seemed, without reason.
      In one of the many seasons of green leaves, I awoke from my doze in that warmer sun, and roamed to that Housatonic pool. There, the water face shown as it did when I was young, but quickly faded away. Only the ancient sand and stone remained, and as I reached out to touch the face that once was, a hand reached upward and joined again with mine; this spirit hand led me to my ancestor's mounds. 
      At one with the spirits, I was a part of the firelight stories in the Mahican camp of green leaves... were the ground flowers burst, and of those long winter nights within the mountain's forest shield. I became one of the many tales spoken across the firelight.

the tales told
in the smell of night flowers
rising smoke

As your water face changes, know... that to the source you will return, and that changes are the reason to cherish time. That is all there is to know; smoke in the wind.