It's not the hunting

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.