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Archive for the ‘Chippewa’ Category


the sound

of the North Wind

 

rushing through the trees

 

all night long.

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Mom says, “Let’s stop and see if the bears are there.”

So we turn off into the dump grounds, where six large dumpsters are lined up on an asphalt pad inside a ten foot high chain link fence.

It is night.

Our headlights illuminate almost everything–to a height of about six feet.

The scene is ghostly.

A bear saunters out from between the dumpsters–wary, as any wild animal is on an Indian reservation.

He is huge for a bear, at least a good six hundred pounds.

He walks slowly away and out of the compound with a full white garbage bag clutched in his mouth.

He is followed closely by a black and white mother cat–her belly hanging down loosely–
as if she were his pet,
hoping for a morsel leftover from her master.

Another bear rises from scrounging within one of the far dumpsters.

His form towers three feet above its five foot high walls.

He regards us curiously.
then disappears again within.

Strangely enough, we do not see each bear.

They are holes in the night,
an absence of light
In the form of a bear

Although, at just the right angle,
we see the glint of their eyeshine–
the light of their spirit within them.

*Bears, plural, in Anishinabemowin.

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The Frogs are shaking their rattles

with no discernible rhythm.

 

They stand unseen

beyond the reach of the porch light.

surrounding the house

in the sultry night air

 

summoning me.

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Midnight in Red Lake.

The air is cool through the open bedroom window.

Dogs are barking.

Somewhere in the distance,

to the Northwest,

someone singin’ Indian.

Their song fades in and out.

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Four white pelicans surround the boat
squabbling for a chance at some cast off walleye.

Red lake is so big that rose haze permeates the horizon
in all four directions.

Some clouds are so low you reach up and touch them overhead,
while cirrus clouds lazily drift high in the sky.

Hear their cadence and accent as we commune.
Old friends reacquainted.

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Trying to fix the mower deck
with hand tools and elbow grease.

The Crows are laughing.

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Always be your self

unless you can be a Littlecreek.

Then always be a Littlecreek

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A Black bear frosted with cinnamon sits on the side of the road.

An Eagle peers into the distance from her high perch over the shoreline.

Two geese bugle as they fly just over head,

against the background of a Minnesota blue-white sky,

in Red Lake.

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This morning, amid the rose-red rays of the rising sun

and the sounds of the birds singing it to rise

and the sounds of traffic from a highway not seen but heard

the four owls surround my house and encourage me.

“Go to Red Lake.”

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You perch with your mate,

directly in front of me,

and unmistakably declare your name.

The sound of your name follows you as you fly around.

I see you… A Grey Crested Tit Mouse.

Why has no one else heard this wonderful thing?

 

 

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