(people of the land of the willow)
this land is our soul, said the sawfly who sat and sifted the goldenrod and yellow sweet clover, buckbrush and tussock sedge.
this is my body laughed the brook trout and the wood bison nodded to the beaver, squirrel, porcupine and vole.
we are so close to the land, said the Chippewa brother while the carpenter ant marched and the black blister beetle scratched his back crawling up the ice pruned black spruce.
partridgeberry are my food munched the black bear and the trembling aspen sighed.
when you see this mother earth, said the Cree mother, where there are reeds one after another keeping alive our connection, our hunters, trappers, fishers and elders…
migrate to this abundance of insects, bogs and lakes, the cave cricket chirped.
the earth and all creatures that live on it are a gift from the Creator, said the sweet bee to the digger bee: pass it along to the next generation.
and the paper birch swayed in the wind.
- from Athabasca: Oil Sands Poetry
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