Saw Grass*

The saw grass whispers
Her name.

The wide
Treacherous terrain
Along the Powder River
Deceives the eye.

It seems level
Expansive
Causing the mind to assume
It a level plain.

But there are deep
Sudden fractures
In the land
Deep enough to hide
Many dog soldiers
With Spencer rifles
Decorated with brass studs
In walnut stocks.

They hold their lances down
As they work to encircle our troop.

Tonight
Before the stars wink
In the purple azure sky
Our scalps will hang
From their lodge poles.

I am afraid to die
In this wild
Crazy land
Where nothing is
As it seems to be.

Where the saw grass whispers
Her name.


* My mind seems fixed on this theme, as shown in this poem, and the one to follow. I often do not write what want. I typically express what seems to have worked its way within.