FRONTIER TOWN

Stumbling over the ruts left by their wagons
Around Appaloosa hills before sundown
melts into the valleys,
Dust swirls around my sandals
whispering each name.
Traveling without a compass, I think I see
an unhinged cavalry horseshoe
Jutting out from the new earth,
A headstone of blanket flowers rises
Bright colors a mixture of Native blankets and tears.
Scattered stars in a black Dakota sky
remain the silent witnesses.

Mary Ann Adams

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