On the Bitterroot

On the Bitterroot, I gathered stones

That I mistook for arrowheads.  A thousand

Flinty points lay scattered there. It seemed

A battle craved a native Xenophon

To scribe a history of vanished bones.

No other trace of strife or sacrifice,

No remnant totems, outlines of a camp --

Communal signs that I could recognize --

Remained.  Yet, what could I surmise beyond

The pointed stones that weighed upon my mind,

Engraving images of tribal war

Before the Spanish horses cantered north?

Within the wind, I hear the bowstring snap.

I see the pied and painted men rush

To battle for the prizes: hunting grounds

And water.

                        I am one who fights for less

Among the stones, and leaves no bones to bless

Howard Brown

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