"Oriole Bird was preening his feathers, twitting and cleaning his tiny claws,
before he went back into his Tipi . . . he'd heard that Tzimo Crow, his friend,
was coming back . . . very soon . . . he sang his favorite Oriole Tunes,
practiced drums . . . and sung in a delighted voice . . . hmmm, he thought, singing
is the best medicine __as he said that, he opened his small Medicine Bundle
made out of a soft hide . . . it was tied at the top with a single Jade Bead . . . and a
cut-short Aspen twig . . . in it, Oriole kept Sacred Things _ that made him feel strong
and gentle at the same time. . .
before leaving Tzimo had carved a small stone in the shape of a Bear . . .
he'll keep you happy and healthy . . . he'd said sweet-like to Oriole. . .
and Oriole Bird felt tears coming to his eyes . . . when he began singing
his goodbye song , his tiny bird's whistle . . . shook a bit . . . but then,
he knew Tzimo wouldn't mind. "
He took a deep breath and said to himself, Tzimo is back !
Oriole had lit a small fire, Spring in the Mountains hadn't
warmed up, yet . . . and Oriole Bird was after all a Bird from
the South . . . so he'd been told. . . Oriole's home were
the Aspen Hills and the Ash-Woods . . . the tall Black Pines
__ long Fall nights and the High-Snows Winter brought to his
door. . . ice shone in the light of his fire. . . at times he felt his
Tipi . . . shivering with the icy winds . . . as much as he did . . .
where is Spring? where is Tzimo ?
I'm here Oriole Bird . . . this is Tzimo, I'm back . . .
I knew, I knew it , yelled Oriole Bird at the top of his lungs . . .
you're here . . . you're here my friend, he said in his tiny
Bird's voice . . . Tzimo, come in, oh do come in, please !
When friends meet again after a long long time away from each other,
words don't come out easy . . . all you really want to do is gaze
at your friend, hold him in your eyes, and secretly you want to hear
his dream-voice, the voice you recalled . . . while he was gone . . .
You know his now-voice . . . but the one that kept you warm
when you slept long Winter nights, wondering and alone, sitting in your
Tipi with no one to talk to . . . that's the voice you loved . . .
the dream-voice, that made time go faster or slower . . .
but kept you alive, so to speak.
Tzimo Crow who was timid by nature , didn't talk much and what he had to
say could wait 'til morning . . . when Oriole Bird would stretch out a bit under in
Bear fur blanket . . . he'd cough slightly as all birds do when they open their
eyes or when a tiny seed gets stuck in their gullet . . .
I made you some grits and a bowl of mush , he'd say to Tzimo . . . mush ?
do I eat mush? questioned Tzimo . . . of course you , do smiled Oriole Bird,
you just plain forgot. . . and as they stepped out of the Tipi to greet the sun,
the trees, new plants and the Yuhakta River that ran below the camp . . .
Oriole Bird whispered to the Aspen trees that barely woke up . . .
do you know whne Spring will flower?
_ there are different kinds of Oriole birds, some are yellow, some are orange . . .
all are beautiful, fun, and sing sweet-whistle-like tunes, each in their own
tiny way . . . they do eat berries, nuts . . . some like Tzimo's friend
eat mush ! but that you already knew. . .
_ Tzimo and Oriole Bird
- (c) 2010 by bijou le tord
