Early Moon

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 to-night 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?