Even the Silence

The Battle of Little Big Horn National Park is a spooky place.
A Lakota Sioux named Harold drove us there two hours before sundown on a Tuesday

His light green 72 Chevrolet short bed Pick-Up rattled, the engine missed and sputtered at higher speeds
Harold looked like a man in his 50's, I learned later that night he was only 32..tall, thin, dark eyes

He asked if we wanted a drink from his bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag,
I took a sip out of no desire to offend, some kind of home-made wine, more bitter than sweet

We parked by the entrance just as dark clouds came rushing, blanketing the Bitter Roots
Harold stayed by the truck and told us to go ahead, he seemed uneasy and took another swig of his wine.

Grave stones cold and white litter the lonely field
Men and horses buried where they fell

A lone pheasant flushed, his rust colored breast standing out amidst the gray
A coyote yipped over toward the Powder River, a chill ran down the back of my neck

To say this place is haunted would be too simple I think, too easy to say.
It is a strange place with sounds from another world, even the silence laments

wkm
Oxford