I'll go gather wood, and what I'll do, I'll do good, And when I have it in my fingers, I hope I'll know it wasn't my hunting that led me there. It was the ice in my hair. It was the way I saw sunrises. It was the way I cracked open eyes'. I'll crack open streams. I'll heat the water to clean, And When I have it in my fingers, I hope I'll know it wasn't my hunting that led me there, It was the new baby's stare. It was the way I saw wolves' tracks, Walked past the air and I walked back. It was the way I threw spears into snowbanks. It was the winter's long lying.