In the middle of the battle I often think of the Dakota.
A dream, in the mountains, horses
approach snorting, pawing the ground
feathers dangle, but their war paint is missing.
At the campfire I ask, “How
did you survive, when so many
A pipe is silently passed from one
to another, as I inhale, the answers dawn
without words, smoke
takes our prayers to heaven,
and peace again stills the heart
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2017, ancient skies