"Refugees in Our Own Land."
"The night is busy with the growth of stars above us,
peaceful.
Shiyáázh, my son, fusses in his cradle board.
The protective rainbow shaped by his father
arches over his face in the dark sand below.
Monster slayer's arch enemy rises again
to pull us off this rock, where we've taken refuge
since winter's approach.
The wind stops.
Clouds drift across the Moon.
We pull water silently from below near the soldiers' feet.
Silence is our cover.
I pull my son close and place my hand on my baby's cheek
to quiet him.
'Sssh, shee'awéé, shiyázhí, Sssh.
Hush, baby.
My beloved, hush.'
With my finger, I circle the pulse just above his ear.
He makes tiny lapping sounds with his mouth,
and turns toward my breast for the comfort of my milk.
But my breast is a sieve from which the enemy drinks.
I am dry.
These hands mixed bread dough for the evening meal,
planted corn and gather pollen from the tender shoots.
These hands held my husband's kisses
and caressed my baby's soft bones as he grew inside me.
We sailed a river that led us to the ocean of all beginnings.
The night cries like an owl.
My beloved son's eyes are full of stars, a drowning
breath in his throat.
Take this map of rainbows and fly.
Fly, child."
That is one of the stories that my grandmother told me,
even though she said our ancestors didn't
go on the long walk.
But she had heard stories of other relatives
whose stories appear in this book.