On the Bitterroot I gathered stones,
Which I mistook for arrowheads. A thousand
Spiky shards lay scattered there. It seemed
A battle, unrecorded, unresolved,
Would raise a song for ancient, vanished bones.
No other trace of war or sacrifice,
No remnant altars, outlines of a camp,
Communal signs that I could recognize --
And yet, what could I recognize beyond
The stones that weighed on my imagination?
I am no scholar; archeology
Appeals to those who find romance in ruin.
I've read a little --here and there -- about
The wars among the tribes before the Spanish
Horse cantered north to graze the plains.
I imagined painted men, pitched
In battle for the prizes: hunting grounds
And water. I, myself, have fought for less
Among the stones, and left no bones to bless.