Chief George Spring is writing you a letter

enclosed with burrs of smoke. Bless. Bless

yourselves in ecologies of care, wield the moon-sword against capital.

Weld the night to red pines on fire. Get paid! End the ash borers’ feast.

For now, the northern hardwoods at the brook’s edge

are dying. Upstream of life, a cooing flows

from your Nicaraguan village through the Berkshires.

The Pocasset tribe is building. You are welcome here.

Te buscas en la memoria;

tu familia excriben sobre los soles intermables. Land, food, & seed

sovereignty is a being

& a being against; a white shield breaking

against the panther’s tooth & the trembling mountains. Be against

borders, imperialist dogs, small town Yanks.

Be a rural refuge returning

the sawdust of heaven rubbed from pocket pebbles

to a faith emblazoned on the frame

of your two-hundred-year-old barn. Tend the land

& free Palestine. No matter where you are, there will be hunters.