Native Indian Feast

feathers on their heads wet
canvass canopy start to drip
drums chant to heaven's part
trinkets hand made in tepees
find their way in small cases
where few bucks gets you piece

clouds not kind to lowlanders
it keeps on pouring for hours
dancers huddle beneath with me
their faces aren't that happy
food wagon cooking food, sweet
burgers, hot dogs good to eat

poem by Manonton Dalan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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