by Ethel Mortenson Davis
This place. . . I cannot say. . . Its name is different. . . for the people that did not stay. The bird song is a different song, a song from a different tongue. Was it music from Potawatomi? or Ojibwa? Was it Ottawa? or Menominee? This place looked different then. Those people’s tongues are lost again. They drift in and out of foxfire embers. Where are their songs? The songs they sing?