Today they’ve come back from the snow—
their dream-walk that began in December—
and are settling in along the ravine
where the creek runs, shaking the fatigue
from their bones, talking softly among themselves.
In a week the elders will speak in tongues.
In two they’ll be chanting.
Muskrat will hum.
In a month the blue flower of the lake
will break from her icy spell.