I saw an indian

wearing a soiled comforter around his shoulders like eagle’s wings

shouting into the night,

unheard but felt against my car window.

He is staring at a red hand

compelling him to wait,

until the white man shows

and he can walk across the street.

And I hoped the light would hurry up and change.

I saw an indian

sitting on his porch to catch a breeze.

Watching me, watching him.

Driving through his land

as visitor, as guest.

As tourist only.

Come to see a pueblo,

as if it were a ruin

and not somewhere people still live.

And I felt no fear of arrows.

I saw an indian

sat along the sidewalk

on a woven blanket of many colors

scratchy and uncomfortable looking

displaying silver and turquoise for sale.

Not bothering to look up at me

through her creased eyes and wild grey hair.

Her hand made wares, hours of work,

priced like gift shop garbage.

And I felt no pressure to pay for anything.

I saw an indian

painting with horse hair brushes

wide strokes of reds and browns.

A tear streaked, yet firm face

derived from a cloud of dust

kicked up by a charging mustang.

The animal itself was bleeding

from many wounds,

frothing and desperate,

It had seemingly been running for a long, long time

with ribs showing.

And I wondered how far it had left to go.