Shoshone Moons
I am Whispering Elk,
Shoshone.
The land
grows dark with white men
like so many ants.
It is time
of green corn moon.
Their tribe grows: blue knives,
buffalo men, yellow hairs.
They speak many tongues,
break words.
Yellow corn moon
fills bellies.
They still come.
Days grow less
like buffalo.
We see blood
on brown corn moon
looking through trees.
Their tribes grow.
I am Whispering Elk,
Shoshone.
Our moons
grow few.
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