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.
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