I can hear him fumbling in the blackness, Muttering under his breath. He is collecting his paraphernalia From the middle drawer Of his bureau. Every day His gnarled fingers search For the fan of eagle feathers And the bone whistle Made from a turkey’s thigh. Then softly, the floorboards creaking, He opens the outside door To stand in the darkness, To breathe the heavy night air. He waits. . . . The eastern sky glows with expectancy. Then, when the night owl hoots, The old man begins to sing, “Ya na hah, ya na hah.” He chants softly, almost imperceptibly. And, as if waiting for his voice, The sky abruptly brightens. He points the bone whistle Toward the east and blows Its shrill sound To part the clouds. Now grandfather sings again. “Ya na hah, ya na hah.” His voice grows stronger and stronger. It changes From the quavering, Almost frightened, voice of an old man, Into a voice of power — Into the voice of a virile man. “Ya na hah! Ya na hah! He takes the eagle feather fan And waves it three times From the ground to the sky Until a suntip appears above the treeline. His song then reverberates into the sky, “YA NA HAH! YA NA HAAH! And the sun disk climbs To sit on the edge of the world. The turkey bone whistle screeches once more And a crowd of waiting roosters answers it. Grandfather then creeps back into the house To replace his paraphernalia In the middle drawer Of his bureau. He tiptoes quietly into my room And taps gently on my shoulder. “It’s sunrise,” he tells me. And so it is.