It is here on this ridge
exposed to the orange dusk
of mountain autumn
that the story begins.
Buck wood for the stove
feel the heat of shoulder to tendon
greet the mule deer
and water the garden again.
In rhythm, with song
when the ax begins to blend with wind
carry on to warmer days
on the riverís open banks
where the fervor of healing is found in water.
Flow from one origin to another--
there is never a place where we cannot begin
where the current is ancient, the wind is young
teaching each other like the ax and the wood.
Carve a place for dignity
plant a seed and pray for rain
for understanding outside your self.
There will come a day when they say:
who do you think you are
and another day will come
for you to tell.
On that day the story will appear
but do not tell of yourself
tell the story of the staff that blossomed in the desert
or the one about your enemyís greatest victory
tell the story of somewhere else