I'm sitting on the curb in late July between Al's Barbershop and Harry's Hardware watching ants making their way to the gutter where they disappear. Busby, Nebraska is not a big town--in fact, it's not even a small town--in fact, it's not even a town. It's three blocks long, but Ethel's Cafe is open for break- fast and lunch. And most importantly, it's on the way to the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation located in the remote southwestern corner of South Dakota where I'm headed on foot. I've been to Pine Ridge a number of times. Something calls me there from time to time. Not sure what it is--kind of like a spiritual whisper. Only got 23 more miles to get there. I walk wherever I go--reminds me of Wordsworth's THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. I say I'm going to Pine Ridge, but actually I'm headed to Wounded Knee Cemetery, about ten miles east of Pine Ridge, where so many of the Lakota Sioux men, women, and children were slaughtered, then buried, the last massacre of indigenous people by the U. S. Army in 1890. I sit on the ground and cry and cry. The dry grasses soak up my tears as fast as they hit the ground.