angels

clamps the Red River ice in its hard

vice;

Feathers of snow, brushing the surface

polish it for some visit of

moon-light:

silence covers

the face of the frozen river,

the low banks of poplar, the dead

grass,

(beard of the Mother), poking

through a lather

of drifts

tip of the tee-pee

swirls, vanishes

among the trees.

Inside, wet wood hissing and

snapping,

flames dry the dampness of

Buffalo hide.

By the fire a girl naps; in her arms

a child

she dreams

of the great fish, sees the hunters

bent over paddles,

in sacred clothes of glittering

scales,

blue, orange and silver, on the fecund

sea

drenched with spume; and the frail

canoe

plunging through the whale’s

plume.

shimmering, shafts

of light; gold and green and

blue

wave gently back and forth,

curtains,

over the home of hides: and the star,

the pivot of the turning sky

guides

hunters home through the blowing snow;

stands

over the place where the mother and the

young child lie.