8:00am. . .The crisp, rising sun beams over the field.
Horses chomp at bits of hay.
The swift sounds of joy fly into my ear.
I hear Mama cooking homemade meals—
Bacon. Bread. Beans.
 
10:30am. . .Gazing down to the plains,
Papa rides his horse, with me by his side.
We hear a whistle as the bow takes down the buffalo.
Bugs flit by the corpses after we skin it.
I hear Mama cooking homemade meals—
Blackberry. Broccoli. Buffalo.

12:00pm. . .17 miles for water, 5 miles for wood,
mosquitoes chomp at my skin.
Glaring, warm, red beams of light fill the sky. 
I hear Mama cooking homemade meals—
Cashew. Coconut. Chestnut.

5:30pm. . .In my heart, drums vibrate.
Music fills my soul with bright colors.
Chants to the gods—tra-la-la-la
And the traditions continue
I hear Mama cooking homemade meals—
Chicken. Cabbage. Cake.
 
8:00pm. . .Tobacco and kinnikinnick fill the air.
I can hear the crackle of the crisp wood from the bedroom.
Mama cleans the kitchen, Papa gambles the night away.
Thank you, Mama, for cooking homemade meals—
Blessed. Cheerful. Beholden.