For the Lakota, the Black Hills, simply, are not for sale. And for many indigenous populations and concerned citizens around the world, either is survival. Men wake on the hill. Dry grass blows from their hair. B52 s blow over their heads leaving a cross on the ground.
Air returns to itself and silence.
Rainclouds are disappearing with fractures of light in the distance. Fierce gases forming, the sky bending where people arrive on dusty roads that change matter to energy. My husband wakes. My daughter wakes. Quiet morning, she stands in a pail of water naked, reflecting light and this man I love, with kind hands he washes her slim hips, narrow shoulders, splashes the skin containing wind and fragile fire the pulse in her wrist.