Moccasin Moon

It slides softly in the night sky, That pale moccasin of the moon— It lights up a snow-bleached prairie— Whispering summer comes too soon. We trace the trail of coyotes— Avoid the dark dens of the bear— The full light of your white footprint Lures us now to your fatal lair. Oh, we chant into the black dome Of all the things that used to be— There’s no more Indian summer— Long gone are Cree and Cherokee. Yet, still the silky stealthy tread Brings back images bright and keen— Of lost Native Americans Where so few are now seldom seen. But moons do not let us forget All the wild blood shed on both sides— As we trace steps of moccasins To where the dark of the moon hides. Yes, it walks gently in tall sky, That faint moccasin of new moon— So gently it illuminates As we dance mutely to its tune.