Once while deep in The Amazon
I watched the hunters dance
with raised arms they spun in circles
chanting hunting songs deep from their gut.
Dancing to build trust in their abilities
there was no time to wallow in doubt
as a small gourd cup was passed around
filled and refilled with a magical hunting potion.
The potions scientific name belongs in parentheses
right behind the Indian name, Chi Chi Doro
written somewhere on the sketch pad of my colorful past
that's been unplugged and left motionless for too long.
The fire they built burned through the night
hunters dance and chant and wave their arms
women sit and watch in anticipation of the feast to come
no one seems to mind me being here.
Dawn lights the way for the hunters
carefully they make their way into the jungle
poisoned arrow waiting in leather sheaths
on the backs of the brave men who wear them.
Spears and blow guns held securely
sights have been set and goals reached
the men return slowly to the village
burdened by the weight of the kill.
Women prepare the feast for the tribe
men and children bathe down in the river
I sit and write about what I saw
the air is filled with the aroma of fresh meat cooking.