Under the sidewalk lay an Indian village–
we knew our state held a buried scream:
one world that moved and then
another world. We walked on both
when we walked our town.
Father tapped a rock and glanced around:
“It is all right to picnic here–
think what they did to us Mound Builders.”
He glanced at Mother’s braids in the sun.
“Do right today, Kids. Do right today.”
Bob and I, the careless ones, we ran ahead
where a hillside opened and they built the dam,
long blue water flowing prairie lake,
slow waves lapping, rock to bank to sand:
Arapaho, Kansa, Cheyenne, Cheyenne, Cheyenne.
