I heard them on the Plains.
Their horses’ hooves drumming,
Their battle cries ringing.
A single feather floating,
From an eagle in the sky.
The majestic bird –
A symbolic shrine –
Soars higher into paradise.
But what is one feather,
To the hero of the skies?
The riders ride on without a tremor,
The brave nobles of the frontier.
Painted faces and war bonnets,
Worn proudly in the sun.
Distant buffalos graze in peace,
Oblivious to their fate.
One day they shall no longer roam.
For freedom is their curse.
Taken from them easily,
Yet, returned rarely.
Facing eye to eye,
They stand against their enemy.
Their rivals quaking,
Inside their leather boots.
Muskets at hand, they fire.
The first falls.
The second follows.
Crimson blood spilling.
The warm breeze pauses.
Waiting and watching.
The bloodshed halts in its gory tracks,
The battlefield silent in wait.
A lone warrior stands.
Lightning flashing down his face,
Smudged in his effort.
He smiles at his victory,
His fight for survival.
It is won.
Custer lies dead.
- keep writing.