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At dusk he approaches across the mowed field where I am camped.
Without preamble he begins to explain, we had our tipis there, and there, pointing,
They put the Hotchkiss guns up on that hill, where the mass grave was dug, afterword.
We contemplate the massacre site. He begins to speak, again, in '73,
The BIA and FBI roadblocks were there, and up there, the APC's, he gestures into the night,
They shelled us from that hill, over a mile away, the casings were this long.
I can't see his fingers measuring in the dark, but I know they weren't small.
He narrates a collective memory, Lakota, I listen with my tearfilled heart, wasichu.
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