i have seen indians grope through The Country in their pick-ups     a motley blend of ancient pride and fresh dirt in their pant-cuffs.
     their diffidence and squalor are terrifying   for i have worn the feathers and vanity of their fathers myself

the indians once were stalkers of the earth--
humble only in her presence
   their women bared themselves to her
   in maiden sweat   and taught new husbands
   how to worship

   their grace was as becoming as a cloud,
their pride as honest as the earth, herself
and she will call on them once more

when our excesses are fulfilled      The Country will again be bronze