I think a lot of America, when they think back in history and see Natives, we were hiding out in the woods, wearing rags and so on, but we had huge s… - Joy Harjo

Black squirrel on a slag of stone — carry me home.

My mother was a songwriter and singer. She is William Blake’s “Little lamb, who made thee / Dost thou know who made thee?” and Alfred Lord Tennyson. She is the traditional Cherokee songs sung at her aunt’s funeral. She is the “Burning Ring of Fire” running away to Independence, Kansas, at sixteen. She is “Crazy” sung by Patsy Cline in a wake of heartache. That was my mother, singing, all those years. My mother’s gifts were trampled by economic necessity and emotional imprisonment.

All those you thought you lost now circle you
And you are free of pain and heartbreak.
Don't look back, keep going.
We will carry your memory here, until we join you
In just a little while, in one blink of star time.