Hukilau

At the edge of a small bay
Framed by stacks of black lava rock
A hundred people watch the water
Others stand in the water
Beads strung across the mouth of the bay
Splooshing and whapping they advance
Shrinking the bay with each step
Sliding over and around obstacles
They keep the line unbroken and noisy
The bay folds in on itself
Fish have nowhere to go but towards shore
Onlookers follow along
We all bunch up
Fish and humans
From the shore we can see a great school
Nervous yellow tangs looking for escape
The master of the ceremony steps forward
Releases a low note from the conch
Silence is returned by the crowd
He volleys back an ancient chant
We hold hands and sing
Words we don’t understand
Strangers and interlopers and appropriators
The rite doesn’t care who we are
It casts its spell anyway
Opening our eyes to this bay and its bounty

T. Weeks
(A response to “Osceola”)