E-atki ‘ep ‘ai mat o ‘e-keihi go'odham
o ‘e-keihi kut hab masma ab o ‘i ha-miabi g ju:ki
‘apt ge cuhug oidk o ka:d mat hab o kaijjid:

"‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o
‘at hahawa o ma:si
‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o
‘am o askia wi'is g ñeñe'i
‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o
‘at hahawa o ‘i-ces g tas
‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o
‘am o askia wi'is g s-cuhug
‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o."

It is the time for the ritual.
To dance, to sing so that rain may come,
so that the earth may be fixed one more time.
Throughout the night,
a night too short for such important work,
the people converge energies.
They call upon the night.
They call upon the stars in the darkness.
They call upon the hot breezes.
They call upon the heat coming off the earth.
They implore all animals.
The ones that fly in the sky.
The ones that crawl upon the earth.
The ones that walk.
The ones that swim in the water and
the ones that move in between water, sky, and earth.
They implore them to focus on the moisture.
All are dependent.
From the dark dryness of the desert,
on that one night the call of the people is heard.
It is heard by the oceans, winds, and clouds.
All respond sympathetically.
Throughout the night you hear the one who is assigned yelling:

"‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o
before it becomes light
‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o
there are still songs to be sung
‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o
before the sun comes up
‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o
there is still a little bit of night left.

With the dawn we face the sunrise.
We face it with all our humility.
We are mere beings.
All we can do is extend our hands toward the first light.
In our hands we capture the first light.
We take it and cleanse ourselves.
We touch our eyes with it.
We touch our faces with it.
We touch our hair with it.
We touch our limbs.
We rub our hands together, we want to keep this light with us.
We are complete with this light.
This is the way we begin and end things.

In memory of Barbara Lannan