Joy Harjo's Web Log

It’s still dark here. What can’t be seen moves deftly through the courier winds.
I take count of all the events that have brought me here
To this island, to this female native body that has now turned
It’s steps toward death. We are all going somewhere, that’s true
Or we dream we are—for a week now I have been both the dreamer of my dreams--and the watcher of my dreams, as now. And I don’t
Know which is which, who is writing the song, who is singing it and who
Has decided to become the songs of these winds.
They are familiar, these winds. Called in English: trade winds. Called by
The watcher: the winds who always come during this season to delight or stun us with knowledge from the rest of the spin. Refresh us.
I want to know more than I know so I thank this lanky, weary body.
It’s the observation post in a healing field.
The outline is the definition: it’s a pre-dawn sky, a dark contemplative moon, the weave of the perfume of naupakapaka, and the wreck of unpacking.
So now, you’re being too literal. This is how you were taught to negotiate
In the schools of the conquerors.
But how can you know the songs these winds bear if you know only
How to count in English, and know not the spirits of the numbers?
How they travel.