If I Were To Write A Piece Of Flash Fiction About Tom Longboat,

I would serve drafts to the wind in the hopes that his ghost — running past — would look at the pages as if he were a character in an all-running version of The West Wing. I would give chase to leaves flowing over Northern New York and Ontario land in the hopes that I could catch a bit of Tuscarora weaving its way through the air as well, could ask the question that I hope still flows amongst those who still speak the language — čwé:’n ahskě:nę hę — as in, Are you still at peace?