We rise in flaxen grass as the sun peels back,
revealing primeval wounds which congeal in the shadows
of our eye holes. Kŭt-o´-yis.
This field was mine, it belonged to a thundering tribe,
whose hooves set fires thousands of miles across the
Now they are gone, chased from the skies over Brokenhead.
They drum their songs in my skull, where the wigwams sway
in the slaughtering wind.