Up.

TUTUWAS

 I know the names

 on this land

 have been changed,

 printed on maps

 made by those

 who claim their ownership.

 Some say nothing survives.

 But the wind

 still sings

 the same song

 of our breath.

 The hilltop trees

 still bend like dancers

 in ceremonies

 that never ended.

 And the little pines,

 tutuwas, tutuwas,

 lift up, protected

 from the weight of snow

 by the held-out arms

 of their elders.

Joseph Bruchac