Running Deer

Tall prairie grass whispers
to gentle wind, its friend,
“Running Deer was here.
She ran until the end.”

“I know,” sighs wind,
“I blew across her brow.
I tangled up her hair.
I sense her absence now.”

Black earth hears this
and cannot help but say,
“She was light and swift,
and I supported her each day.”

“How sad,” cries grass,
“That she won’t run and play.”
“She’ll run,” says wind,
“She just won’t run our way.”

Note to Josie: Long ago, they called your great grandma “Running Deer”.

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