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Camp of the Sacred Stones


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We drive to Sacred Stone Camp
SUVS, trucks, pick-ups
from four directions,

stand by the sacred medicine rock,
touch the side of the mineral’s flank,
watch land and water

in the Cannon Ball River
turn red with blood,
an open trench, a scar dug

through a cascade of states.
The courts are slow. Judges silent.
Burial grounds and farmlands

bulldozed into the same pit.
Oil and pipelines guarded
by dogs on leashes who bite

those who protect children,
no trading futures
on an open market,

how the black gold
will help us god.
Come to Sacred Stone Camp.