Offered up in the tule fog of morning,
rustling by teasel, whispering sisters
steer through the salt marsh in
rusty yellow boats, captives
of the great blue heron.
One cautions the other.
Aim your paddle at the roots
of the reeds we’re to gather.
In a dream,
their grandmother said,
weave a cape, cut, dry
soak tule in salt water.
Make days together
twisting time into strength.