Where my tepee is attached to the world there are many lashings.
My mother lashed me to her back as a baby and there I faced the future. I have seen many things. I am still lashed. Such is life.
Says Old Jim You were a colicky baby. Your mother bore you on her back for thirty years, the weight of you with crooked legs.
Later I walked upon bones, bent at strange angles.
My father said No. HYEEEEE! YOU child. A small stone caught in a current turns, hardens, has no ground.
From under the water I hear my father above.
Pulse
swarming insects, flocking birds
dark masses make their way across the sky. He says Leave your home.
Thinking of slow-moving hands and the comfort of frayed fabric, pushing the needle through cloth and working the awl into thick animal hide. The wise wearers of old clothing.
Patching, mending. I pound more stakes into the lashings but winds from the north are strong and dark. I stay close to my mother.
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