Somewhere Else

　　 by Matthew Shenoda

　　 It is here on this ridge

　　 exposed to the orange dusk

　　 of mountain autumn

　　 that the story begins.

　　 Buck wood for the stove

　　 feel the heat of shoulder to tendon

　　 greet the mule deer

　　 and water the garden again.

　　 In rhythm， with song

　　 when the ax begins to blend with wind

　　 carry on to warmer days

　　 on the river's open banks

　　 where the fervor of healing is found in water.

　　 Flow from one origin to another--

　　 there is never a place where we cannot begin

　　 where the current is ancient， the wind is young

　　 teaching each other like the ax and the wood.

　　 Carve a place for dignity

　　 plant a seed and pray for rain

　　 for sun

　　 for understanding outside your self.

　　 There will come a day when they say：

　　 who do you think you are

　　 and another day will come

　　 for you to tell.

　　 On that day the story will appear

　　 but do not tell of yourself

　　 tell the story of the staff that blossomed in the desert

　　 or the one about your enemy's greatest victory

　　 tell the story of somewhere else