Crows in the Corn

I remember the fields of blue sky
over rivers of buffalo flowing,
and warm furs in the lodges
when morning embers were glowing.

We used to be great hunters
following the herds afar,
but memories of our glory
have hardened like a scar.

The buffalo were taken from us
now we camp beside the corn,
where dreams of the nation's greatness
are forgotten and forlorn.

There is nothing to sing and dance about
where the stunted ears are growing,
the only music the people hear
are clouds of blackbirds crowing.

The past was our time of greatness
celebrated in song,
now the cold wind moans in the cornfield
and all the bison are gone.


by Robert Quinn
all rights reserved