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.