We need a new light here.  Folding our hands, rubbing them together, it's cold.  Dusty particles sparkle in the sunshine, floating.  A structure around us.  Regalia hanging in the closet.  The land is calm and patient.

While we fold our hands together dusk grows around us.  Street lights turn on and we unfold our hands.  Drying manoomin, depending on the season.  Folding our hands together again.  Realizing some folks cards that are dealt are a good hand.  Our cards aren't a good hand.  Slamming the cards down on the table in disappointment.  The new light is the street light buzzing.

Once forgotten pronounced synthesis.  Educated premonition of a rectified circumstance.  It's nice to have streets lights on this occasion.  I keep looking at my hand, unfolding my hands.  I see the cards.  This is a new hand but I won't win.  Bus rides lead to nowhere here.  The rez at least led to somewhere.  If not just driving over to our Auntie's to talk.  It was somewhere.

Taking a break from the game.  Here the cards were on the table.  Mostly forgotten, the mainstream smiles at me.  They know I am something unique but they do not know I am Indian.  The mainstream had a privilege in it's eyes that I don't see on the rez.  In other Indian's eyes the look is an old feeling, a tired feeling.  Wisdom buried because the mainstream culture worships the TV and magazines like People or Cosmopolitan.  I've readied myself for conversations and questions about being Indian.  Folding my hands, I will look away sometimes when someone from the mainstream culture stares at me.  I'm usually not interested in talking with them.

The new light in here is dim like dusk.  This card game is predictable.  Walking on the land.  Balanced in how each foot engages with the land.  Silently connecting, surviving, seeing.

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Anishinaabe words in the story

- manoonmin - good berry, food that grows on water, wild rice