Sacagawea's Capture*

As I strolled the Knife River trail
a dust cloud swirled and fell
and earth lodges appeared by the score
extending from the path to the river banks.

Hidatsa women sang at their chores,
        husking corn -
              beading moccasins -
                     scraping a buffalo hide.

A band of hunters dismounted
and released their ropes -
dropping two deer and an elk
by the hanging rack.

Triumphal shouts from the river
turned all heads to the shore
where warriors, returned
from Shoshone fields,
lashed up canoes and dragged
their human spoils up the rise.

Several squaws reached out
from the gathering crowd
seizing two of the squirming children.

A Shoshone girl with terror in her eyes
cringed as a warrior raised his arm.
"No, tell your Hidatsa name!"
Sobbing she choked through broken tears,
"My name is Sacagawea."

I bolted to breach the walls of time
to face death in her defense
but a new whirling cloud intervened.

When the dust fell away
all the lodges had vanished
with all the Hidatsa villagers.

Kneeling down to the Dakota grass,
I caressed a circular hollow
etched deeply in the silent earth.



August 6, 2010

Hazy veil
of mazy
grey-white-jade
abstract cumulo tangle
quasi-close to the ground
accentuates the beauty
of the mighty river
at the edge
of a dangerous
denim cascade
leading to a free fall.


At every step
fading spiral shades
of lighter hue
entrenched in white
rashly caress
those fine
fascinating fringes.


The rugged rocks
hugging dusky tone
have fought
the flowing frenzy
of the heavy fume,
tried in vain
to obstruct the drain,
but at the end
laced the azure
with a golden chain,
witnesses the green
that grows within.

the muted colors of the in-between world
that is november in my yellowstone home
feebly blanket the terrain in dull tones

new spires being born as cliff faces yield
blasted by gusts of super-volcanic sand
in winds that coat even the river in dust

four napping bison seem comfortably huge
their massive bodies mimic the mountains
revealing how this is truly their home

a bald eagle surveys from a split-rail fence
her mate above circling the trout-filled river
their intertwined lives proving love's depth

If I could grow a pair of feathered wings
I’d flap ‘em clear to mid next spring
Across icy skies and frosted clouds
I’d flutter past the city crowds
To the mountain peaks and fields of green
Where the air is crisp and the waters clean
I’d float down on Shoshone land
And let those wings erode to sand

If I could wave my arms and fly away
I’d wave and wave till summer days
I’d soar beyond asphalt and steel
To prairie grass and rains that heal
I’d fly towards those wild creatures
Where a starry sky is the only preacher
Id float down on that western vale
And vanish with no trace or trail

If I was blessed with the gift of flight
I’d glide away in the dark of night
In tears I’d leave with no goodbyes
As I beat my wings through smoggy sky’s
And left all I knew and loved behind
I’d cry and cry till I was blind
‘Till I floated towards that Earthly eden
To freeze and burn with passing seasons

These wings they’d fly but one direction
Far from streets paved with dejection
Towards a pink horizon beyond the gray
Where the sun still shines on smoky days There I’d find those golden grasses
And even in beauty in the ashes
I’d fly on down to amber flames
To melt away these heavy chains

But I can’t float or fly or glide
These wings are clipped these hands are tied
So I walk and walk with blistered feet
On crowded, asphalt, dejected streets
Where the air is foul and the water black
Where the flowers sprout through pavement cracks
So when I dream I’m floatin’ by
Soaring towards those crystal sky’s