that night we walked along dry creeks
and into the desert outside of Chinle
cottonwoods rattled in hazy, hot wind
the sound floated over locusts,
and hung in corners of hogans
we struck match to sagebrush
told stories of Kit Carson’s soldiers
burning houses, fields, killing ponies
wind rocketed down the canyon
and into the night, and we dreamed
that the Indians won that war
in pink, desert dawn,
ravens squawked and strutted
around our camp
ready to pluck out our eyes
when we weren’t looking
