At lunch in Porto -
a wood spoon serves
wild rice.
I recall manoomin
from an Ojibwe stand -
broken bits,
memories.
Have you seen
the tall rice ripening
along marsh edges?
Polers and
strikers
work as one
in a rice-filled
boat.
Seeing
manoomin
is a narrative
of sound -
summer
ripening,
a harvest,
a roast.
At
lunch in Porto,
all this
again
found in the sound
of a serving spoon.
