I remember a rider on a horse
and the flute that he was blowing,
his face held up into the wind
with long black hair a flowing.
A sure hand on the bowstring
and a strong arm for the lance,
many feathers a bouncing
as his feet moved in the dance.
Brave in battle was this warrior
and gentle with his squaw,
the tales he told the children
held them in silent awe.
Where now is the Brave called Small Fire
his tepee is dark and bare,
the clouds and smoke are moving
and I sense his spirit is there.
by Robert Quinn
all rights reserved
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