It starts with bright yellow
garbage bags blooming in the back
of a dusty black 4 x 4 pick-up truck,
glares at us
until we put on sunglasses to keep from burning
our winter eyes.
We born of the old ways start to sleep
until the sun fades in late afternoon.
We dream of blueberries.
We stay up late, drinking beer,
watching the ice rise, waiting.
When the river runs again,
the white woman will paddle back to her cabin.
Lying alone in her wool underwear,
in her goose-feather sleeping bag,
dreaming of the lost white boy
with the ponytail
and the big hands.
Me and my friends, we’ll line up
to work construction
over at the site for that new hotel.