gathered below the steep
salmon-froth of waters,
my own star-white
heartlet of the river.
In my pouch a pebble
when I follow the river-tree
up its far-off branches
revealed by the bird-voice
to old mountain hunters,
twisting forest-pathways
below Gôdag Wajok,
to the silver gardens
of Gwenitegok.
In my pouch a pebble
under scraping-shell
under pemmican
and sinews of the deer.
Birch-smoke smells like winter
far-off, sweet, thick.
Grandmothers boil fern-heads,
brothers' moose-blades
uproot seedling-pines
in the fallow garden
waiting for beans and corn.
In my pouch a pebble
when I walk the sandy bank
surprising the great heron:
I am Cohoskwasis.
I am star and wind.
I am stone and water.
Remember.
Nimble grasses riding
waves of the wind,
silver hair of the world
around fat pines burnt off.
Gwenitegok in springtime
has swept away the stubs
leaving beds for beans,
corn, squash to lie
together in.
In my pouch a pebble
precious as a star
saved for a far world
not yet dreamed.
One torn-out seedling
left along my path
a silver-needle starburst
small as a girl's hand.
In my pouch I steal it
away to moss, green pillow
of the forest.
At its gentle edge
I tuck the little tree:
I am Cohoskwasis.
I am star and wind.
I am stone and water.
Remember.
From my hand the pebble
warm and white as the moon,
pressed among pine-roots
at the edge of a far world
not yet dreamed.