Native American Songs and Poems

these are moments of terror where innocence
is held in exile
words broken and bruised lay
around the prophets

Where all the good things are.
A redtail’s nest
forty feet up the east side
of a white pine.
The old,
old whitetail buck who’s
hunted me these twelve
Novembers—he’s not the same
one, nor am I.

The animals are beautiful.
There is no song about it
since words are hard to find—
Seals on the ice down there—
When I found a few words
I fastened them to the music—

my song
I am
now
a glossy blackbird