Returned To Say

When I face north a lost Cree

on some new shore puts a moccasin down,

rock in the light and noon for seeing,

he in a hurry and I beside him

It will be a long trip; he will be a new chief;

we have drunk new water from an unnamed stream;

under little dark trees he is to find a path

we both must travel because we have met.

Henceforth we gesture even by waiting;

there is a grain of sand on his knifeblade

so small he blows it and while his breathing

darkens the steel his become set

And start a new vision: the rest of his life.

We will mean what he does. Back of this page

the path turns north. We are looking for a sign.

Our moccasins do not mark the ground.