I raise my voice in the open dome,
turn about to play it like a flute
through its many apertures.
I have seen photos
of the light flying through
like formless birds coming to roost.
The body loves to be in a circle,
the hogan, the igloo, the dome.
I read somewhere
if you spend your time inside
your mind thinks in boxes.
Outside it is free to roam,
In the dome it grows,
in a circular space it falls quiet
and feels safe to be at home.