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97 WHAT TO COUNT ON Not one star, not even the half moon on the night you were born Not the flash of salmon nor ridges on blue snow Not the flicker of raven’s never-still eye Not breath frozen in fine hairs beading the bull moose’s nostril Not one hand under flannel warming before reaching Not burbot at home under Tanana ice not burbot pulled up into failing light Not the knife blade honed, not the leather sheath Not raw bawling in the dog yard when the musher barks gee Not the gnawed ends of wrist-thick sticks mounded over beaver dens Not solar flares scouring the earth over China Not rime crystals bearding a sleek cheek of snow Not six minutes more of darkness each day Not air water food words touch Not art Not anything we expect Not anything we expect to keep Not anything we expect to keep us alive Not the center of the sea Not the birthplace of the waves Not the compass too close to true north to guide us Then with no warning flukes of three orcas rise, arc clear of sea water ...

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