How swift he flies bearing the sun to the morning.
See how he sits down in the trails of the eastern sky!
Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will, no more I follow thee!
When the night comes again, wilt thou say, “Follow me”?
THE PLANTING SONG (Osage)
I have made a footprint, a sacred one.
I have made a footprint; through it the blades push upward.
I have made a footprint; through it the blades radiate.