Where is the—Swimming Bird?
Where is the—Running Bear?
The moon had shown every side and in this season, hid.
The corn would not grow—and our horses grew sick.
The wind it hurts my cheeks and the words—
Slits my throat.
I have nowhere to go,
With a canteen of water and one of corn liquor.
Endless desolation of rocks, trees and mirrors,
I have a long journey ahead but too much time.
So I drag my pack.
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This poem is [like every poem, but especially in this case] meant to be read aloud. The voice I used in this was not my own, but that of an old Native American I used to know. Enjor'r.
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