EARLY MOON
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HE baby moon, a canoe, a silver papoose canoe, sailsand sails in the Indian west. A ring of silver foxes, a mist of silver foxes, sit and sitaround the Indian moon. One yellow star for a runner, and rows of blue starsfor more runners, keep a line of watchers. O foxes, baby moon, runners, you are the panel ofmemory, fire-white writing to-night of the RedMan’s dreams. Who squats, legs crossed and arms folded, matching itslook against the moon-face, the star-faces, of theWest? Who are the Mississippi Valley ghosts, of copper fore-heads, riding wiry ponies in the night?—no bridles,love-arms on the pony necks, riding in the nighta long old trail? Why do they always come back when the silver foxessit around the early moon, a silver papoose, in theIndian west?
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