 Shio, Daitsu, Kimshak Dagwadoa. I'm called Kimshak. That's what I just said. I was born here in San Francisco, so was my mother. I was born at UC. And when I went and had my own baby there, they were shocked to find that they had a file for me with my hand prints in it. Mom went to Polly, for those who remember that far back. This is called human. Did you always know how to listen? Wake up with the concrete under your nails and covered in salt. There are pelicans all over that rock these days, all over that rock. It's cold. And the currents, the currents, there's something at the core of the island. There is something at the core of the island. Some people are a pebble and were caught in the ripples. How do you learn? How do you learn to be human? I won't set any words so solid that you might catch yourself on them, not even restless, a word you might have outgrown. You might have outgrown it given time. We can teach ourselves anything. We'll learn to be real people with songs and ceremonies that we will not blame on you, even if your words called things out of us, out of these city moments, a memory. There are other sacred wings, but that evening in the Osage Hills, it was a moth, just as you said, though you said it about something else. So much to learn and taste and time will choose as often as dice or wisdom and the hiccup moan of harmonica or any of the blackbirds back home or the sad native boys who are on their way to being men in those days. Some people are a pebble and were caught in those ripples, fallen or thrown. The water still shivers. And also this one called Radio Poet. These were both written for John Trudell right after he passed. New century in its teens, my heroes are moving on. Radio Poet in the Bay, I remember you. Micah'd paint in the smell of copal. The heartwood of this city can be split along growth rings and woven. That prison place and even the idea of judgment, the salt is taking the buildings that still stand there. You are on Indian land. Bay water, I knew it pretty well back then, fishing with my father for bullheads, the crab nets that taught me early lessons in how to set a trap with string or were those words. There are things I don't remember. Somehow the old bait shop by Garadelli is muddled in my childhood with the occupation. Those spike-riddled lures, the back of the old Toyota and Muni pier, the salt and muscle colonies. How many crabs can I name? Radio Poet in the Bay, we're still here, draped in those healing fogs. The pelicans are back. They're back and the salty prayer smoke will bring word. For now, the salt still sings here and in the glitter sand. Thank you very much.