Here's a poem called "In My Lifetime."
Which is a poem written--
I grew up pretty much in Northern Montana.
On two reservations.
I was born on the Blackfeet Reservation
and I lived for several years on the Fort Belknap Reservation.
Which is just about in north central Montana.
And this poem takes place on the Fort Belknap Reservation.
This day the children of Speakthunder run the wrong man.
A saint unable to love a weasel way.
Able only to smile and drink the wind that makes the others go.
Trees are ancient in his breath.
His bleeding feet tell a story of run the sacred way.
Chase the antelope naked till it drops.
The odor of run, quiet in its blood.
He watches cactus jump against the moon.
Moon is speaking woman to the ancient fire.
Always woman.
His sins were numerous, this wrong man.
Buttes were good to listen from.
With thunder hands, his father shaped the dust.
Circled fire, tumbled up the wind to make a fool.
Now the fool is dead.
His bones go back, so scarred in time.
The buttes are young to look for signs.
That say a man could love his fate.
That winter in the blood is one sad thing.
His sins, I don't explain.
Desperate in my song.
I run these woman hills.
Translate wind to mean a kind of life.
The children of Speakthunder are never wrong
and I am rhythm to strong medicine.