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Song for the Deer and Myself to Return On

This morning when I looked out the roof window

before dawn and a few stars were still caught

in the fragile weft of ebony night

I was overwhelmed. I sang the song Louis taught me:

a song to call the deer in Creek, when hunting,

and I am certainly hunting something as magic as deer

in this city far from the hammock of my mother's belly.

It works, of course, and deer came into this room

and wondered at finding themselves

in a house near downtown Denver.

Now the deer and I are trying to figure out a song

to get them back, to get all of us back,

because if it works I'm going with them.

And it's too early to call Louis

and nearly too late to go home.

-Joy Harjo, 1990

I wouldn't say it's too late to go home, for me, but what do I know? I'd say I'm there, but it's a hard word to define. Though, speaking of deer in the room--yesterday we had a bird in the house, fledgling (starling? near as I can figure). Caught it in a towel, let it out the window.

I very nearly forgot today was Wednesday, and I remembered now, when it's technically Thursday--but I haven't slept yet, so it's still Wednesday to me. Some grace, from anyone who still reads this.