NAAD33' |ARETHA MATT

Naad33'

ARETHA MATT

A summer morning welcomes warmth

and sometimes a mellow wind through the opened doors of eastward facing homes.

The early sun casts long shadows westward behind the aged hogans, hand built from dirt and ancient timber; behind decaying houses, finished with rotting wood and sawdust; and behind collapsing trailers, manufactured with fiberglass and foam.

The clatter of a worn tractor engine breaks the early silence and bursts of rusted smoke fill the crisp air.

The aged man checks the beaten gauges to see if they are working and then attaches heavy, earth-searing blades

to the red, rattling creature. In the kitchen, women gather yellow tidbits of naad33' , the corn, in white flour sacks

and empty coffee cans.

The women

follow the deafening sound and billowing smoke of the tractor engine to a large open field prepared for produce.

The sacred dust

lightly blankets their faces as they drop four kernels into the ground with every four steps and sing silently to themselves.