Far beyond the built up boulevards of the city, there is an old Indian crouched like a shadow to the ground, listening for the heartbeat of the buffalo. He won't let the scabs on his knees dry up into dust storms that once darkened the plains of Dakota with herds of buffalo stampeded over the edges of cliffs; he won't let the palms of his hands wave away the years when these beasts borrowed their meat and bones to his tribe to orbit with the moon across the plains. He will only plant his ear to the earth, and listen to a wounded planet whose heart has skipped a beat.
This magazine is produced by the Write Place and is funded through a St. Cloud State University (St. Cloud, Minnesota) Cultural Diversity Committee allocation. Contributors retain all rights to their work.