"Onesquethaw you sing to me
from the cold dark depths of your mountains shadow."
She sings. In the shadow of Onesquethaw Hill on a cold March morning. She sings. Through the dark shadow of a poplar tree. She sings. The somber notes of her mourning song. Shattered by the torrent, a ripple of a creek song. Under the water. Beside the bank. Inside the trees. She sings.
Sunlight, a mother’s cheek,
soft downy rivulets, tears
for her first born unborn
A woman there lives, and she lives in the water. On dark days, her face appears on the surface. We can hear her singing at night. In our beds. A slow song in another tongue. We go about our business. Her song is the land, the heart of the trees. She is a part of all of us, in the shadow of Cradleboard Hill.