The baby moon, a canoe, a silver papoose canoe, sails and sails in the Indian West.
A ring of silver foxes, a mist of silver foxes, sit and sit around the Indian moon.
One yellow star for a runner, and rows of blue stars for more runners, keep a line of watchers.
O foxes, baby moon, runners, you are the panel of memory fire-white writing tonight of the Red Man's dreams.
Who squats, legs crossed, and arms folded, matching its look against the moon-face, the star-faces, of the West?
Who are the Mississippi Valley ghosts, of copper foreheads, riding wiry ponies in the night?—no bridles, love arms on the pony necks, riding in the night, a long old trail?
Why do they always come back when the silver foxes sit around the early moon, a silver papoose, in the Indian West?
