The Haida people live where the land
wants to end but can’t quite.
Overturned by muscle
I went there seeking new ways to see.
I found some of their daily wealth–
endless butter clams in the tide’s outstretched arms.
On a linen nightstand for hungry daydreams
I saw a longhouse fire in old Haida eyes peering back at me
with a stare that saw beyond the horizon
as an eagle dancer from a high-prowed war canoe.