We ended up slow, making love, though it started out as sex.
The Shaman we just visited had left us wanting more.
Our time with him suddenly made life much more complex.
Though your first choice was a woman, you didn’t close the door.
Our urgency said take our time we’ve not been here before.
The band we played in toured a country alien to us.
The Indian and Cowboy wars would show up time to time.
Sometimes the Cowboys yelled for us to get back on the bus.
But when we played the Rolling Stones, they thought we played just fine,
while the Indians in the back all stood there in a line.
Our female vocalist stood out not only for her looks,
Her family line was Cherokee; her stature a cliché,
but when she sang sometimes you’d see the anger that it took
to make it through another night with a mob that wants their way.
So the cover tunes out numbered all the songs we’d want to play.
We’d written songs that made us laugh and some that made us cry.
But they were ours, a way to say what mattered to us all.
But to only play the top chart tunes was too much like a lie.
So if our song was anti-war we’d hear booze and loud catcalls.
Seems sad when happiness looks like a bottle off the wall.
The Indians from the back took us in their jeep.
The two of us not sure what or where we might end up.
At the time we couldn’t know how much we’d wreck our sleep.
They took us to their Shaman who gave us each a cup
We sat, he spoke, we listened til the sun was coming up.
No one spoke on the ride back there wasn’t any need.
The parking lot of the club seemed desolate and bleak.
But the joy cascading from her smile showed part of her was freed.
In quiet dawn at the motel, neither felt the need to speak.
While the morning hours seemed long enough to last us for a week.
We found we’re each other crying in an embrace we undersood.
The language uttered through our touch was new and tentative,
and the landscape had us flying without knowing that we could.
The hills and valleys spoke to us the mesas rose to give
the sound of thunder to the heart and a sacred place to live.
The lifetime of my time with her; like a whistle in the wind,
you’re certain that the notes you heard are what you think they are,
but the whistle fades so does the dream; fond memories come unpinned.
Now the gentle rain that was a storm’s been captured in a jar
that lets me sip from time to time as I wonder how you are.