I decided to pick up a copy of N. Scott Momaday‘s classic prose in House Made of Dawn. I wonder why it is so rare to see any of the Indian story-telling or prose mentioned on sites of American poetry? His opening paragraph seems amazing to me, all by itself:

The river lies in a vally of hills and fields. The north end of the valley is narrow, and the river runs down from the mountains through a canyon. The sun strikes the canyon floor only a few hours each day, and in winter the snow remains for a long time in the crevices of the walls. There is a town in the valley, and there are ruins of other towns in the canyon. In three directions from the town there are cultivated fields. Most of them lie to the west, across the river, on the slope of the plain. Now and then in winter, great angles of geese fly through the valley, and then the sky and the geese are the same color and the air is hard and damp and smoke rises from the houses of the town. The seasons lie hard upon the land. In the summer the valley is hot, and birds come to the tamarak on the river. The feathers of blue and yellow birds are prized by the townsmen.

And of course the song:

Tsegihi.
House made of dawn,
House made of evening light,
House made of dark cloud,
House made of male rain,
House made of dark mist,
House made of female rain,
House made of pollen,
House made of grasshoppers,
Dark cloud is at the door.
The trail out of it is dark cloud.
The zigzag lightning stands high upon it.
Male deity!
Your offering I make.
I have prepared smoke for you.
Restore my feet for me,
Restore my legs for me,
Restore my body for me,
Restore my mind for meÂ…