The wagon and mule, Time and Eternity, stop to change places. Their lean and slope-back shadow, my reservation. The moon moves like infested flour. At the river, bloody victories meet bloody massacres. They tell each other about their dead.
Grandmothers eat buffalo instead of hamburger. After supper, guitar chords bite through gravestone. Then the one grandfather interrupts, walking 
off with his own skull as a lantern into the polar night. Snowshoe hare cleans the ears of the sleeping and leaves prophetic dreams.
It is quiet. One can hear the hair of the dead grow. The woods, itself, dressed in frozen children’s clothes. Few of the living disguise themselves as pawned beadwork.