She-Walks-Through-the-Door Loves Moon Dog
Her face is looking towards us, her soft eyes
mysterious in the painting.
Bright feathers, hair braided with dyed beads.
Before her the wise elders hunker,
The lodge is quiet, tense and smoke-gray.
She knows their words, the long puffs drawn
from the pipe, like the wolf’s baying, will
seal her fate. They speak. With wry, moist lips
she smiles her way into the yellow of moon dog.
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