Louise Erdrich(b. 1954)
I Was Sleeping Where the Black Oaks Move
W e w a t c h e d f r o m t h e h o u s e
as t h e river grew, h e l p l e s s
a n d terrible in its u n f a m i l i a r body.
W r e s t l i n g e v e r y t h i n g i n t o it,
t h e w a t e r w r a p p e d a r o u n d trees
until their l i f e - h o l d w a s b r o k e n .
T h e y w e n t d o w n , o n e b y o n e ,
a n d t h e river d r a g g e d o f f their covering.
Nests of the herons, roots washed to bones,
snags of soaked bark on the shoreline:
a w h o l e f o r e s t p u l l e d t h r o u g h t h e t e e t h
of t h e spillway. T r e e s s u r f a c i n g
singly, w h e r e t h e river p o u r e d off
i n t o arteries for f i e l d s b e l o w t h e reservation.
When at last it was over, the long removal,
t h e y h a d all b e c o m e t h e s a m e dry w o o d .
W e w a l k e d a m o n g t h e m , t h e b r a n c h e s
w h i t e n i n g i n t h e raw s u n .
A b o v e u s drifted h e r o n s ,
a l o n e , h o a r s e - v o i c e d , b r o k e n ,
s e t t l i n g their b e a k s a m o n g t h e h o l l o w s .
Grandpa said, These are the ghosts of the tree people,
moving above us, unable to take their rest.
S o m e t i m e s n o w , w e d r e a m o u r w a y b a c k t o the h e r o n d a n c e .
T h e i r l o n g w i n g s are b e n d i n g t h e air
i n t o circles t h r o u g h w h i c h t h e y fall.
T h e y rise a g a i n i n s h i f t i n g w h e e l s .
How long must we live in the broken figures
their necks make, narrowing the sky.