Mournful Last Home

It’s been a hard day; we are tired, weak, and starving. Our ponies search under the crusted snow for only one piece of dead brown grass, a little nourishment for another day. There is little to be found for them or us. The children cry with pangs of hunger; the babies die. At nightfall we reach a rest in the valley, a small frozen lake. The drifting snow blows across the ice in waves and circles. The freezing water soothes our thirsty ponies; hundreds of them outline the beaches of the frozen water. There is still ice on the cat tails; a sort of frozen sparkle. This lake isn’t much, but we don’t have much left. Everything was taken from us by a different breed of man. We are all that’s left of the free tribes.
We run, searching for what was promised. We know it can’t be found. There has been nothing left for the fulfillment of promises. The winter season has come early this year and is perhaps a bad premonition. We make camp here. Not much of one. Most of us huddle together trying to keep from freezing in the winter blizzard. If we can just keep going, just have one more day of freedom. We start dancing to honor the Guardian Spirit. We dance into the night. It keeps us warm and warms our hearts.
The wind kicks the snow off the top of the mountain. There is no green from the trees that never change. They are covered with snow, the same snow we battle with ourselves. The lake is frozen solid. Some of us grab the shining rocks on the edge and search for water. The ponies are thirsty, our children hungry. The hunter comes back unsuccessful; another starving night. Then I hear a pony screech. This hunter got his target. Our children will be fed.
There is no longer anywhere to go. We stay by this lake, its ice so clear. Even the fish have moved on from this place. We talk of pressing on. We know the cavalry will soon be here. Our scouting party saw them just this afternoon.
We dance again this night. Our flames are low as to not attract attention. But how can we hid hundreds of ponies and keep our starving children quiet? The lake is all we have left, a point of reference. The snow frosted trees can hide the ponies; the wind will cover our tracks.
Moving on doesn’t seem like an answer. We no longer can walk, and the children begin to go. Maybe we can make it further north without being caught up with by the cavalry. There’s a second party closing in; we won’t make it to the North. We stay here by our lake, our last hope and mournful home. Our bellies are past growling; it’s more a constant rumble. Another pony squeals. Our bellies are content.
The mountains are covered with tree, we are hidden, but so are the enemies. May the gods protect us, what all is left. We have danced to honor them. They understand we couldn’t be subdued. We are meant to be free.
This night is worst than most, with a blizzard coming strong. The ponies are all resting, and they probably won’t awake. We have buried all our children by a lake that has no name. There are only a few of us left now. The cavalry won’t have to come. We huddle together, unable to start a fire. We left our homes in a hurry and lost all our belongings. We are trapped here now, so cold and tired. Everything goes black, a relief from all the white. I hear the man next to me struggle to mumble, “I’d rather be a dead Indian than a reservation Indian.” We both doze off to heaven.

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