The days fanned out,
an ocean of stars came into view

And Crow was there too,
a star in each eye
gave him sight —
the same glow on his wings
gave him flight,

and though it took a million or more
to fill the sky
and they all look the same
to you and I,
they know the difference,
they are unique
they think,
they are unique
to themselves.

There must be a million
but it only takes a few
to make the shapes
a figure, its bows
and belts — the same
for you and me,
how many do we need?

Their stories could be told by Crow
if only we understood
where to look
and when,
and could we remember them?

And were they always there
just waiting to be seen,
or did we make them with our
minds, and why does it matter
who sees?

They can’t tell the difference,
they don’t need to be seen —
they’re an ocean of stars,
of days,
and only the crows
know what they mean.

Categories: poetry

Tags: American Indian art, constellations, crows, memoir writing, nature, poem, poetry, stars