East Dakota

There are too many stars
on the prairie tonight.
They are too much here

and there is nowhere else
to turn. Each is a dream,

each walks into a dream
on pronged feet. Dark wind
through the cottonwoods

is nothing to them. Wind
through the dark grass.

Name the century that was
buffalo. Name what color
glared back from whose eyes

into the headlights then.
Many people have traveled

a long way. Some have not.
Perhaps it's true they've come
to understand how black means

life, and white, not too
unhappy death. These stars,

these tight swans will not argue.
This is not a first snowfall,
the sky is far too clear.

Though it's turning cold, everywhere
there is another center.

Copyright © 2003 Edward Haworth Hoeppner All rights reserved
from Crazyhorse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission