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The Little Bighorn
A mist, but not of memories or ghosts,
And not a silent mist - a noisy one
Drifts darkly over this altar to the past
The docent pauses for each motor home
Gear-growling up the unexpected slope
Along the road from that point to this one
Well-paved and posted: fifteen miles per hour
For cell-‘phone shots where each historic death
Is marked with stones among the sunlit grass
The docent speaks of her peoples: Cheyenne,
Arapaho, Sioux, and soldier boys blue
With frequent and reflective pauses as
A Winnebago circles Last Stand Hill
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