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?