All Thirst Quenched

for my granddaughter, Wahcawin I didn’t want to scold the sky that year, but Grandma’s words taunted my senses. If there is a thirst, then you need to pity the flowers in a loud voice. Ask the frogs why they are being punished, stomp on the ground and talk to the dried clay about cracking open the earth. I know challenging the storm is risky. “Last but not least, burn cedar and pray the lightning doesn’t strike your town.” That night, the stars disappeared, so did the birds. Perhaps it was the season for rain or the dance. In the western distance, we thought we heard cannon blasts, looking over we watched the horizon fill with lightning strikes. Rain couldn’t pour hard enough over the thirsty plain. Accompanying clouds, called to thunder’s voice in extreme decimals requesting all the water heaven could send forth, to come. Rain and more rain filled empty stream bottoms. Rivers who had pulled their dry banks farther and farther from their center begged for a drink to startle dusty beds with a flooding roar. Lives in dormant places begin to stir and awaken. The lives of water beings, those that swim, the ones that hop, and the ones that fly, begin to stir. That year all thirst was quenched.