I would be the loom, standing square in the vault of the people.
The hunters coming back from the forest, hands still wet with the life of their prey, would make my shuttle sticky as they form my weft. Antelope and deer, brought back to colorful life, would prance across my skin with tales of courage and sacrifice.
Parents would spin astonishing stories of new generations into my yarn, and their hopes and despairs would become the cords that bind it all.
When the sky changes, children would gather at my feet to hide under the blanket of their ancestors who shout from beyond the billowing clouds, and at night the stars would become singing sprites sewing wisdom into young and old alike.
Looking out across the river, love-struck swans would whisper onto my flesh, and muskrats, with the water dripping from their whiskers, would add voice to the strands of my warp.
In the morning the sun will begin the day by weaving across me stories of hope and discouragement, and when the day is finished the changing moon will send everyone to their bed under a tapestry of a prepared dream, and throughout it all I would be important.
Robert D. Gosselin