When I face north a lost Creeon some new shore puts a moccasin down,rock in the light and noon for seeing,he in a hurry and I beside
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 pathwe both must travel because we have met.
Henceforth we gesture even by waiting;there is a grain of sand on his knifebladeso small he blows it and while his breathingdarkens the steel his become
And start a new vision: the rest of his life.
We will mean what he does.
Back of this pagethe path turns north.
We are looking for a sign.
Our moccasins do not mark the ground.
