howl.
first, they revealed themselves to me.
spirit, flesh, and sound.
they had asked me to join them in the studio to work on a project.
they didn’t tell me what it was, and i didn’t ask - bring your camera, just come.
then they revealed themselves to me.
breath.
they drove me to the forest, searching for a river.
they shared with me knowledge that I cannot share over mcdonald’s coffee.
when we reached the forest, guitar and harmonica in hand, they sat.
they prayed.
entry.
permission.
respect.
and we entered.
spirit.
halfway through, we came upon a construction site.
mother intervened by her children.
there was a big, old tree on the ground.
forced to rest - severed from her legs.
he who is older, heard a call from the tree.
spirit unable to rest.
whisper.
he listened.
he prayed.
he said the sacred words.
he did the sacred work.
it didn’t come to him - he made it happen.
he intervened his matter - his own beyond.
softly, kindly, because it is right.
someone needs to do this work.
and the spirit moved on.
gaze.
the youngest then came to the tree.
in his eyes, grief.
the grief present in all who from the sidelines, witness the horror.
guard who we can.
do what we can.
we fell silent - we kept walking.
the air was filled with the sound of the river.
no false dawn.
from them i received the knowledge to make it here as a migrant.
how to survive a winter - what to do in the face of whiteness.
why we need to return to mother.
why so many refuse her love.
when the time comes, we will need them.
they will guide.
*This photo essay was the winner of the photography category of our 14th annual Writing in the Margins contest, judged by Annie Sakkab. We gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Regina Public Interest Research Group (RPIRG) for this year’s contest.
