Maps

He says:

“She folds and unfolds
Directs me
To an exact place
On the reservation
Where nothing is ever
Written down.

“She tells me our maps are stories
Told in a scale
Larger than can be held by
Our clumsy hands.”

She says:

Some are used to lingering over them — maps.

Until the helicopters came to the mountain,
From which emerged men dressed as one,
In suits and plastic helmets bearing an expensive logo,
And in whose faces mirrored each other wetly
Expressions of restrained glee
Masquerading as disinterest,

I, too, did like to fold and unfold them
As pictures I could use to discover where I might climb rock,
And stop to rest,
And catch the hant, hant, hant of a raven
Above the scent and sound of wind among the trees,
Stream water over worn stones…

They meet at the top of their painless climb
to decide which ground will live and which will die.