At some point I slogged to a halt and put it down.
As in a dream, running in water, we can't gain on it.
The wretched excess of the westward ho honkies shooting the buffalo from trains leaving them to rot.
In context, there were massacres both ways, and no joy.
A friend thereafter being a coyote half Indian half Spanish killed himself sitting under a tree overnight to freeze to death.
Then working for a famous "native American" artist who burned us, watching him roll on the ground with his bottle of Ripple as his Jewish wife cursed him.
Lift us up to the high-flying eagle spirit of the codetalkers, and their clean courage.
A lady came from Vassar to the Navajo Reservation and married Sheepherder, and they battled alcoholism.
In 1996 Gordon House killed a family of four in his wrong-way DUI run on the Interstate.
Last year Lloyd Larson repeated the feat in another DUI wrong-way Interstate head-on killing four.
At the other end were the bright young faces who came out for our Senate candidate and their fathers with medals.
We were up in Carson Forest and had to return a pack to a guy from Kentucky staying with a police woman at one of the pueblos.
We drove in during a fiesta and followed a police unit til it stopped.
Out stepped a very tall, powerful man in loincloth, mocs, feathers and paint.
We were welcomed for food and drink, delivered the pack and returned up north.
Many times of reflection on mesas, visits to springs, the Pedernal razor, Bandelier.
Now all pueblos seem to have casinos with bright lights, floor shows, and the stars are unchanged.
