Navarre Scott Momaday(February 27, 1934 / Lawton, Oklahoma)
Eagle Feather Fan
- by Navarre Scott Momaday49
The eagle is my power, And my fan is an eagle. It is strong and beautiful In my hand. And it is real. My fingers hold upon it As if the beaded handle Were the twist of bristlecone. The bones of my hand are fine And hollow; the fan bears them. My hand veers in the thin air Of the summits. All morning It scuds on the cold currents; All afternoon it circles To the singing, to the drums.
- by Navarre Scott Momaday46
Once in his life a man ought to concentrate his mind upon the remembered earth, I believe. He ought to give himself up to a particular landscape in his experience, to look at it from as many angles as he can, to wonder about it, to dwell upon it. He ought to imagine that he touches it with his hands at every season and listens to the sounds that are made upon it. He ought to imagine the creatures there and all the faintest motions of the wind. He ought to recollect the glare of noon and all the colors of the dawn and dusk. For we are held by more than the force of gravity to the earth. It is the entity from which we are sprung, and that into which we are dissolved in time. The blood of the whole human race is invested in it. We are moored there, rooted as surely, as deeply as are the ancient redwoods and bristlecones.
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