she holds a wave
wind from the moan
so many tribes now echoes
not even printed newspapers
hold the stories, but crows
hustle history
she is on barnacles
seals gulping air
moving like gliders
rubbing whiskers against
crabs scurrying
crows waiting
she writes lines
in between ca-ca
regular black crows
pushing air around
eagles, dive bombing
Douglas firs, eagles
tripped up in their jet stream
crows juking on a road above
picking through French fries
two bags splayed on yellow line
they bob, weave, jitterbugging
on tarmac, never fearing crushing
crows are taking her moan
reparations in spirit
so many tribes, millions
eradicated for their crow
people, all those animals
uncles and aunts, tribes
in a fifth dimension
she is in many fields
past-now-future-forever
crows the messengers
not of tribes’ deaths
but of their songs
the leather and beads
those feather fans
long-houses and totems
dog soldiers and weavers
so many crows on the edge
crows take their souls
hold audience for white
women like her
she writes poems
lifts black from white
until her pages are the murder
crows everywhere
on the stanzas, inside
the capitalized ‘o’
under adjectives
crows rushing verbs
no fooling around
crows out there
in the thousands
ten thousand in Seattle
moving Puget Sound
ghosts with unifying
flight, native keepers
waiting for word warriors
to see their glory
