shirt over the line and clamps a wooden pin down over it. There’s virtually no wind, so the clothes just hang. The lake undulates and shines; there’s nothing daunting about the weather. She pins a dish cloth to the line, her eye moving from the sunlit white to the dark blue water beyond.
The blue water touches the blue sky. Blue over blue where the two seem to meet.
From below, the expanse of water spreads. From above, the clear blue sky curves down.
The thin line is merely sight’s limitation.
So much light and air. So much open space. Mesmerizing in its constant stirring.
In the blue, I once found reason to clutch or to let go.
To justify equally action or inaction.
I flung my deepest feelings out into it. The spit and drain of fear. Of desire. Trickled harmlessly. Joined unnoticed. Its muteness a comfort. Its muteness defeat.
I am beginning to know its tendency to absorb everything.
My poor. My Mrs.
At the blue line of the long horizon.
Birds and boats disappear.
1622
Large logs of green wood bracket the fire and the moose-hide vat is swollen with sap, turning the air thick inside the lodge. Three Winds bends to feed the fire and keep it at the right height, while Bullhead stands over her taming the froth. The sisters have been together constantly, though their talk, once as persistent as buzzing flies, has calmed to a satisfied silence.
Grey Rabbit sits along the wall, examining a straining mat. They’ll need it in the morning, when the boil is done. She runs her fingers over the narrow strips of basswood, testing the weave for weak spots.
“You should rest now,” Bullhead says to her. “You’ve been tree to tree like a woodpecker all day. I’ll wake you when it’s your turn to work.”
Grey Rabbit feels tired, though she’d rather not give herself over to dreaming. “I’ll go see that Standing Bird and Little Cedar are settled.”
“You rest,” Bullhead more than suggests.
Three Winds backs up her sister. “With hot coals and sap that scalds to the touch, you’ll be in no shape to help if you don’t sleep now.”
To say anything more would be disrespectful, so Grey Rabbit sets the mat aside and spreads her sleeping roll against the wall. She lies with her head resting on her arm as a slow trail of people carry in wood and the last of the day’s sap. Her eyes half open, she watches the sisters work, one broad, one thin, but both similar in gesture and in the rising and falling patterns of their speech. It’s lulling, the soft sound of their voices, punctuated by the snapping fire, and her arms are sore from the day’s work cutting, and her stomach is full of squirrel, and the weight and warmth of the furs press down on her, and the fire-smoke rises through the hole in the roof.
Bullhead is over her, touching her arm.
Grey Rabbit groggily steps outside to find clouds covering the stars, cocooning their camp in darkness and night woods. Below her the black water pounds against the shore. She bends and scoops up a handful of snow, touching it to her cheeks and neck, holding it for a moment over each eye, her skin waking with the cold. Her nose waking. Her hair smells of sweet sap. The water pounds a rhythm against the rocks, and though she can’t see it, she feels each wave sending vibrations up her legs. The giver. The taker. Gichigami.
When Grey Rabbit returns to the lodge, she sees a flash of disapproval in Three Wind’s eyes. She’d looked in on her sons, but she’d hurried back. It’s warm inside and bright from the fire, the air hanging smoky sweet.
Bullhead is already asleep near the wall, so Grey Rabbit takes her place at the vat. Three Winds hands her the long stick with a spruce branch lashed to it, which she is to dip across the froth whenever the sap starts to bubble too much. The two work together without speaking; there’s only the fire and the sleeping sounds from along the wall.
“Long ago, when Bullhead and I were girls learning to do
The blue water touches the blue sky. Blue over blue where the two seem to meet.
From below, the expanse of water spreads. From above, the clear blue sky curves down.
The thin line is merely sight’s limitation.
So much light and air. So much open space. Mesmerizing in its constant stirring.
In the blue, I once found reason to clutch or to let go.
To justify equally action or inaction.
I flung my deepest feelings out into it. The spit and drain of fear. Of desire. Trickled harmlessly. Joined unnoticed. Its muteness a comfort. Its muteness defeat.
I am beginning to know its tendency to absorb everything.
My poor. My Mrs.
At the blue line of the long horizon.
Birds and boats disappear.
1622
Large logs of green wood bracket the fire and the moose-hide vat is swollen with sap, turning the air thick inside the lodge. Three Winds bends to feed the fire and keep it at the right height, while Bullhead stands over her taming the froth. The sisters have been together constantly, though their talk, once as persistent as buzzing flies, has calmed to a satisfied silence.
Grey Rabbit sits along the wall, examining a straining mat. They’ll need it in the morning, when the boil is done. She runs her fingers over the narrow strips of basswood, testing the weave for weak spots.
“You should rest now,” Bullhead says to her. “You’ve been tree to tree like a woodpecker all day. I’ll wake you when it’s your turn to work.”
Grey Rabbit feels tired, though she’d rather not give herself over to dreaming. “I’ll go see that Standing Bird and Little Cedar are settled.”
“You rest,” Bullhead more than suggests.
Three Winds backs up her sister. “With hot coals and sap that scalds to the touch, you’ll be in no shape to help if you don’t sleep now.”
To say anything more would be disrespectful, so Grey Rabbit sets the mat aside and spreads her sleeping roll against the wall. She lies with her head resting on her arm as a slow trail of people carry in wood and the last of the day’s sap. Her eyes half open, she watches the sisters work, one broad, one thin, but both similar in gesture and in the rising and falling patterns of their speech. It’s lulling, the soft sound of their voices, punctuated by the snapping fire, and her arms are sore from the day’s work cutting, and her stomach is full of squirrel, and the weight and warmth of the furs press down on her, and the fire-smoke rises through the hole in the roof.
Bullhead is over her, touching her arm.
Grey Rabbit groggily steps outside to find clouds covering the stars, cocooning their camp in darkness and night woods. Below her the black water pounds against the shore. She bends and scoops up a handful of snow, touching it to her cheeks and neck, holding it for a moment over each eye, her skin waking with the cold. Her nose waking. Her hair smells of sweet sap. The water pounds a rhythm against the rocks, and though she can’t see it, she feels each wave sending vibrations up her legs. The giver. The taker. Gichigami.
When Grey Rabbit returns to the lodge, she sees a flash of disapproval in Three Wind’s eyes. She’d looked in on her sons, but she’d hurried back. It’s warm inside and bright from the fire, the air hanging smoky sweet.
Bullhead is already asleep near the wall, so Grey Rabbit takes her place at the vat. Three Winds hands her the long stick with a spruce branch lashed to it, which she is to dip across the froth whenever the sap starts to bubble too much. The two work together without speaking; there’s only the fire and the sleeping sounds from along the wall.
“Long ago, when Bullhead and I were girls learning to do
Similar Books
