One Last Snow

The island windsighs, night lamps are lit
like eyes dotting the bluedark shoreline.

Snow narrows roads, white settles
like wings draped on spruce trees.

Tonight, sleep will be a flight over muskeg,
following dark wet tracks pressed into bog.

Trail to sea, through craggy, bent shore pine,
hemlock, the last few cranberries hanging

from thin-threaded bushes. The doe emerges
from forest where waves tongue

a snow-soaked beach. A seaweed patch—
she bends her head with the prayer of hunger.

Seawall

Nothing
separates us/me
from the sealion. I catch his breath-scent.

If I don’t hear the ocean next to my pillow,
all is not well in the world.

The small stone that I swear was gold,
I stuffed into the seawall—
The ocean said it was hers.

Mink skitters along the rock wall,
startling the dog.

How many fish have looked up at me
looking down at them?

How many fish have seen me
tossing wish rocks from my porch into the sea?

Vivian Faith Prescott was born and raised on the small island of Wrangell, Alaska, Kaachxana.áak’w, in Southeast Alaska on the land of the Shtax’heen Kwáan. She lives and writes as a climate witness in Lingit Aaní at her family’s fishcamp. She is a member of the Pacific Sámi Searvi and a founding member of the first LGBTQIA group on the island. She’s the author of several poetry collections and works of non-fiction and fiction. Along with her daughter, Vivian Mork Yéilk’, she co-hosts the award-winning Planet Alaska Facebook page and the Planet Alaska column appearing in the Juneau Empire.

Published January 15 2023