FCC Women Writers’ Group Blog – 10/11/23

The wind whistles through your malagg’aayaq.
Snowshoeing over the tundra
And up the slough to Auntie’s house we go.

Over the trapline to check the snares
And make some rabbit gloves.
Moose fur on the black spruce,
My stomach growls, echoing far.

Rippling sounds, whistles traveling like a blast,
Turbulent planes fly in the sky,
The love of going home at last.