and time we did not count measured
by the many who came upon us,
the plains rolled back to dust,
the bison, dead and dying?
In their winter burial, the snows fell red
and the wheat towns grew over them.
This is our black tomorrow,
the future of the seven fires.
The silent elders look away,
eyes empty, bereft of purpose.
No-one asks them for wisdom;
the way ahead is behind us.
Now we turn left and right,
to find a path to walk
from every season’s end
to its beginning.
© BH, 2022
Unexpectedly, the Wind series materialised this at the end.
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