Among
the Huron
She
was not abandoned
Screaming
, run you must run
And now, too late
Among
the Huron
Their
miserable bark huts, wolfish dogs
She,
erect, bound by rawhide
The
river sluggish with ice, so wide near
That
place
And
he, returning with nine French hatchets
Bartered
for her body, clubbed by squaws
In
the bone litter and scattered brands of lodge‐fires
Remembering
it long after
Each
time differently, he knew its meaning
On
his farm in the far country
In
the corn rows
A
scarecrow, white, sewn
Between
black earth and sky, white
Stitches in its neck, the wind blowing through
Stitches in its neck, the wind blowing through
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