“Our people made supplicant offerings for the ascension of the sun. Birth Clans, immersed in their own rapture, danced their astounding anticipation of rebirth, virile and erect, sweating profusely. The Oak Clan women divined for protection and peacefulness. The Crones rejoiced over the apples that had remained steadfast against hunger, and gave their blessings to resume spinning and weaving. Most meditated for good fortune between the legs of our Life Givers and sprung from their worship would be another wave of newborns to our people.
The Greihound sat in the ash smudge peering with profound clarity into the world of our people. Their hearths burned with a cleansing fire while ours ignited the blue flames of the dreamtime. We reached into aching joints and congested chests drawing off the chill into ourselves and dissipating it into the smoke. The magicians of all clans worked long into the nights with us, divining for blessings of health, freedom from pain, and fruitful hunts. Although the sun had been born again the river remained frozen in the Winter Wait. Bread became a sacrament and fire pits became temples to the Ancient Ones. The creatures that had been sacrificed so that we could survive transmuted into the Divine Messengers of the Infinite Present. So too came the fever of love and we, nearly four moons into the depths of the Season of Dreams, became acutely aware that those not being consumed by winter waited it out together, perspiring in athletic embraces hidden beneath piles of deer robes. It was an excruciating temptation to steal into those passionate nests ourselves. No one would dare whisper the word “thigh” without risking being ejected out to the ledge.”
Excerpt from Ancestral Airs