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Sand Creek Massacre Grounds
By Jon W. West

--for Bill Dawson

A circle of light surrounds the moon

On a small bluff
North wind rips and whistles
Through bones of cottonwood
Along a dry wash

My small fire flickers
Against this bitter cold

I load my pipe
Offer with trembling hands
To the powers that be

As I smoke the wind dies down
Clouds cover the moon
The fire grows dim

Everywhere at once
A pulse quickens beneath the frozen ground

Years gone mark a silent passing
Of Cheyenne relatives who fell at this place

It is their names
Which form whirlwinds of dust
Their shadows which run along our side

And what is never seen
Does not walk away from us




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Copyright 1997, 2017, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 08/19/2002

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