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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The summer grass of Montana waves in the heat of the noon, Where the valley of the Little Bighorn waits beneath the silent moon; The cottonwoods whisper along the river, the winding waters flow, Unknowing the storm that gathers close, the impending grief and woe. A nation of lodges spreads wide on the plain, the Sioux and Cheyenne and the brave, Gathered in freedom to hunt and to live by the river's cool wave; With Sitting Bull's vision of soldiers that fell like grass in the gale, And Crazy Horse riding to shield the camp from the encroaching trail. Down from the ridge comes the Seventh Cavalry, banners of dust in the air, Led by the general with yellow-ringed hair, riding away from despair; Divided the forces, the columns unlinked, marching to strike at the heart, Believing the foe would scatter and run before the first shot could start. The valley awakens to thunder of hooves, the crack of the repeating gun, As Reno makes contact and crosses the river beneath the fierce afternoon sun; The smoke rolls thick through the timbered brush, the panic and chaos arise, And troopers retreat to the circle of wagons, amid the dust-blinded skies. Then Custer presses the northernmost rise, seeking the flank of the camp, Hearing the drumming of thousands of feet and the earth-shaking tramp; Out of the coulees the warriors pour, countless as stars in the night, A tide of resistance, fierce and unyielding, entering into the fight. Arrows like rain blot the bright summer sky, the rifle-fire echoes around, And riderless horses run wild through the smoke across the blood-spattered ground; Circle by circle, the trap closes fast wholly engulfed at the foot of the sun-blasted hill, As the sound of the shooting begins to recede and the valley grows eerily still. On Last Stand Hill the blue uniforms fade in the dust and the heat, A tragic collision of empires and fates, a moment of bitter defeat; The shadows stretch long as the twilight descends, wrapping the slain in its shroud, While the victors look out o'er the silent expanse, unbroken, defiant, and proud. Now the grass grows green on the battlefield slope, where monuments whisper of old, Of the stories of courage and sorrow and loss that history forever will hold; Where the waters of Bighorn still wind through the plain, Lies a monument carved where the spirits remain.
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