One Feather is All Feathers

poem

---

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.