The Lean Gods

I

On the buffalo trail the lean gods run.

Their eyes are gray and their skin is dun.

Their step is a slow breaking of brush

On alkali rivers, slim and lush.

They companion the coyotes among the grass

And walk with the wolves. They never pass

The leaping rabbits. The buffalo,

Chewing their cuds, watch them come and go.

They pick the crow's-foot and the nameless stuff

That grows in the sand on the top of the bluff;

And the black haws hid in the deep bad lands.

Their faces are stained, and so are their hands.

They smell of burnt sage, on their feet are the ashes.

But their smoke-blurred eyes are great with the flashes

Of sparks fanned into flame by the wind

That the running gods had left behind.

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Slow oxen teams bite into the sun

And stir up the dust where the lean gods run.

And bearded men watch the yellow skies,

Bowing their heads where the buzzard flies.

In the gray covered wagon the women sit.

Some with composure sew and knit

And some cry out with burning hot tears

As the prairie madness nears and nears.

Theirs is a slow uncertain fight

Against the gods that burn them white.

But in the end the fight will be won,

The fight against winds and rain and sun. .

Some are cringing on the seat,

Some are trampled by oxen's feet.

Men shall smother unuttered fears;

Women shall plod with men for years.