TRAJECTORY HALTED
On top of this hill tonight there
is nothing : Only the black sky
where maybe the coyote sings.
The wail of a Cherokee, the
song of 'Man of Swift Arrow.'
I'm here now reading history
in an old, moist book - I'm
told it comes from tears, the
moisture. Chickasaw, Chocktaw,
Seminole, and Creek. Of yes,
such gnashing of teeth.
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