In the morning, I hear the chants
of the paddlers, the canoe nations
on their sea journey coming in with the tide
over a forest of seaweed.
There is a story in the large single tree
that carries them on water.
The story is long.
They sing it and tell it their names.
First, I saw them
as if they rose from the sea
one after the other
same as the waves
and I ran to meet them
the paddlers of the black canoes
as if they were my tribe
when we came to this land
from the other side of America
meeting de Soto, becoming slaves.
Then at night the dancers,
the heart of the singers
come into my heart,
the blankets with salmon
and buttons as if dosing and opening
the history on their backs.
All were there: eagle, whale, frog, raven,
the world.
for the beginning,
that canoe of my own people
seeing the flowers
so beautiful, and the birds of all colors
as we journey,
myself a cell of someone’s body,
seeing it through their eyes,
but this time I only wish to be on this coast
sleeping with the old ones
in a village newly revealed
up from the ocean,
this edge of being there,
the cedar of the canoes
of the beautiful,
and light in morning
the man saying,
We will feed you.
We will care for you.
You may step upon our land.