And the skin boats

Slid quietly on the water.

For now

Just the sound

Of the men paddling could be heard,

Their white breath hanging briefly

Against the April air.

In time they found some big males

And worked through the morning to land them

For the women to clean and butcher.

The same hard ritual on the same

Bloody ground as before and before.

The herd, too, a silent partner

In this timeless communion,

Skin boats themselves,

Urged through the icy sea

By some wondrous Evinrude,

Its smooth crankshaft turning

The ancient flywheel of migration.

Later the people celebrated

And began carving the ivory,

Scrimshaw patient by their oil lamps,

While above

The taut

Hide of night

Tossed up

Another fat

Savoonga moon.