Sitting Bull

Sitting on a far off hill,

far from the others,

eyes closed tight,

sensing the setting sun,

under a fading pale blue sky,

the smoldering embers

give off little heat,

he waits for his vision,

breathing in deep,

rhythmic the rising

and the falling

of his massive chest,

he falls off into his trance,

seeing his people victorious

at Little Big Horn

over the white-eyes;

but there will be no

Sun Dance Ceremony here

for the white-eyes lust

after their sacred gold

in our sacred Black Hills

where we always hunted.

He sees white settlers

with their wagons

scouring the countryside,

searching for gold,

staking a claim for themselves;

killing off the buffalo

these lying white-eyes.

He wakes from his vision

knowing he will be

the last Sioux to surrender;

under a cloudless, pale blue sky

of a rising sun,