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Victory Vision

Dust claws skyward,
gun smoke rolls out gray and flat.
Shrill screams of horse,
dry-mouth shouts of men fill the iron air.

He smells heated guns,
tastes burned powder and raw blood.
Guts and brains spilled,
fear and sweat mixed, unequally.

These things he knows
of a hundred fights on bitter, barren plains.
He can see and not go mad,
as grass grows and wind blows.

Above his victory ridge,
white clouds worship their sire, the sun.
Cloud mist washes away,
fading into lines of men in dirty blue.

Over the low mountains,
march endless columns of infantry.
Phantoms of dust and smoke,
blown to sudden rags on the wild wind.

Crazy Horse wheels away,
driving the vision from his heart.
Thumping his horse,
he heads south, toward the spatter of distant rifle fire.

He speaks to the clean sky,
‘We cannot kill them fast enough.
‘New soldiers spring up
like green prairie grass pressed under my pony’s foot.’

Thank you.

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"Thingmies? We don't need no stinking Thingmies"

Donster

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