One Feather is All Feathers
Long ago, on the San Francisco wharf, a tiny bird hovered around me. I opened my hand, offered it to that bird, and laughed when it landed on my palm. "Hey," my white friend said. "Could you be more Indian?" I laughed again because some stereotypes are beautiful. Of course, that bird was just accustomed to tourist fingers and french fries but I felt a sweet loneliness after it flew away. Years later, when all my senses alert to the salt air of Seattle's Elliot Bay, I sometimes lift my open hand to the sky with the hope that something delicate will appear and bless me, bless me, bless me again.