Grey swollen salt pond,
arched poplar, leaves
cover moss and roots
exposed. Gutted fish
hang tail-down from cord,
tree to tree, smoke
and salt – breaking acorns
and getting past winter.

This is the beginning
of a dream I had – hard
sleep, rare on this
day after day of ice
and buried north, the nip
of winter even beneath
sheets. This is Inupiat
he told me, warned me.
Point Hope, home.