It is hard not to picture their bodies,
stark in the contrast of new snow, lying
in the frigid shallow waters, their backs
to the sky in a final act of defiance –
her husband Black Kettle’s final words
heard only by yellow goldfinches,
preserved like Cheyenne arrowheads
hidden deep in pages of red earth, the
river playing with her long black hair like
bay grass in zephyr, her nine scars a
handwoven map leading back to Sand Creek.
Evening Panoply 