past a quiver of graves.
Bailey, the others, here.
Custer alone
there. They made a stand
on high ground.
Not high enough really.
You scan surrounding hills.
Point out alabaster clusters.

Tombstones huddled together
white
amid grass turned brown
by August sun. Like Yellow Hair
cursing
in buckskin
without hope
I watch you circle

recounting Sioux tactics.
Victory
won a century ago.
Was it last night
under Montana stars plentiful
as sparks from Sioux fires
we decided love
had floated into the night?

Had drifted
with smoke toward the stars?
By such a fire
I believe
Crazy Horse knew
Sioux had hope. Knew
the next day would be filled
with scalps, some of them

more gold than red
in the setting sun. Bleached
headstones you point to
say they were right. But
ever the romantic
I search the riverbank. Hope
to see the dead
reclaiming their lives in the trees.