There is no word
for this waking wonder of day
that never ends, even in dark
where the creek lets out as endless line
its liquid canon
a song that goes on
through the facieses
whether rock
or not.
If we take down these hills,
crush and slam frac sand deep against shale
there is no word to tell
how these lands shone with corn,
with bone of mastodon
or crystalline stone,
and once rolled as waves in ocean.
When I wake
I have no word
for the shifting soil
singing beneath
the soles of my feet −
even Thanks seems so fleet.
I have only the words spoken
before sunrise −
before migizi has flown:
Good Morning.
Author’s note: Migizi is the Ojibwemowin word for bald eagle. Migizi flies at dawn to see if humans remember to greet the day so that the world may continue.
