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I have always loved musk ox
shaggy herds galloping together
in family migration.
The way they circle their young when threatened
males form the outer ring
followed by a circle of females
their offspring huddle
inside this impenetrable ring of protection
When the government decreed
that Indian children be removed
from their families and tribal ways
taken to boarding schools
far from their native lands
stripped of their soft buckskins
moccasins and beads.
Long hair severed in some rite of assimilation.
What they did not know is this:
You can not change a river
it will jump its banks to reclaim its course
Dams will not last forever
that the Iroquois plan for seven generations
of their offspring.
And it is said that at Sand Creek
where the massacre of the Cheyenne
still stains the new fallen snow
you can hear the voices of the People call
a plaintive wail
constant as the wind whistling through
prairie grass.
As I look upon these Native American children
posing stiffly in sepia toned prints
starched expressions reveal betrayal
eyes dry as river stones in drought season-
What I see is this:
Circles formed around them
great great grandmothers and
great great great grandfathers
creating an impenetrable ring of love.
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