When White Hawks Come
I dreamt the spirit of the codfish:
in rafters of the mind;
fly out into the winter's blue night;
mirth off alder tendrils sashay;
while I set up my winter tent;
four panels long—beams suspend
blubber strips aged in a poke seal bag;
a bluejay lands on the windowsill wing feathers —
shadowing the sun as a new moon; as blue, lapis
icicle time melts—when white hawks come.
_________________________
dg nanouk okpik
blood snow
Wave Books, 2022
