Mom and I are up early to hunt.
Dew covered grass stick to our shoes.
Tall, thin blades stand out among
the rest of the green grass.
One by one, wild onions find their way
into the clear, plastic bowl.
Our fingernails gather clots of dirt
while the smell of onion fills our nostrils.
My breath held, while she breathes deeply.
Step by step, we prepare the plant:
cleaned, chopped, cooked with boiled eggs.
The food is ready; no onions touch my plate
yet the knowledge of wild onion and
Cherokee tradition remains with me.