it is thanksgiving i ought to thank someone but where are the indians?
i put my coat on i walk out into the frost i put my feet to the ground
like an indian i step out into the cold as if i have deerskin moccasins
on. i walk down to a place in the woods with a stream in it that you
and i dammed up like a couple of beaver one year for fun.
listen! that’s the sound of nobody getting into their cars. that’s the sound
of nobody hurting anyone this time. that’s the sound of people who are
asleep in their beds, a people who for one moment are not busy trying to
own the land. it is the sound of women who were patient with their men
and men who were patient with their women right back.
and horses that did not bridle and men who bought each other beer and
women who loved each other gracefully and parents who died knowing
their children loved them. it is the sound of a child who will discover love
as if it is the first love and the voice of god in her ear as if it is the only
god. it is the sound of a beaver dam
holding the water back. it is thanksgiving and morning is quiet as an indian
trail. i would like to thank the silent people who sharpened their tools and
did their work and saw their fortunes rise and fall and their paychecks
come and go and their kids come and go too and they passed it all on
without complaining. people who were wise
people who were foolish people who were innocent in their hearts and lived
to tell it and people who were loud and with big fists but they used their big
voices and fists to speak truth and to reach out against power gone wrong.
i would like to thank all the people who knew when it was time to place
their hands at their sides and let
a cheap shot slide. i would like to thank the leaves for falling so quietly
from the trees. it is thanksgiving i look out past the bare trees and out over
suburban rooftops and further than that, out to the city. so many people!
you are out there with them like indians under their blanket of earth
but i don’t know where. i would like to thank you too.