IROQUOIS BIRD MAN
            by Lynn Samsel
                c. 2008
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The bird man was born into an Iroquois longhouse
rich in women and tradition.

His clan was Beaver, so they expected
he would grow up to honor the furred
river creatures:  beaver, otter, marten, mink.

The aunties always set him in the sun on the riverbank,
blanket laid just below treeline, just above the wet.

Let him watch Beaver hard at work in clear water,
chewing branch and building home.

Let him laugh at Beaver Slap-tail, Otter slip-tail.
Let him learn brook, creek, stream, river, and lake.

But the first animal to speak to him was Bird--
feathered, not furred; of air, not water.

And Bird had other ideas,
filled the baby's ears with birdsong,
chirp sound, wing flutter on the wind.

At nine months he could reply to the call:
"Chick-a-dee-dee-dee."
At two he learned sparrow feet, magpie taunt,
hummingbird magic.

Running forest trails at thirteen,
he could talk to, hear from, learn by
any bird he passed.  

To them he was grounded, 
wingless, feather-naked;
but he could talk up a storm
with any creature of the air.

At seventeen the Bird Man
followed the call of a trouble-making woodpecker,
slid south down the spine of two sets of mountains, 

and met my seven-times great-grandmother
in what would become Tennessee.


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