Poem #3 by Amy Kathryn Allen

The wind, a restless spirit, whispered through the sparse sagebrush, carrying the scent of dry earth and distant pine. Elara, her eyes the color of storm clouds, knelt by the dying embers of their fire, her fingers tracing patterns in the cool ash. The poem, a plea woven from desperation and enduring hope, had been her offering to the Great Manitou, a prayer for sustenance in a land that seemed to hoard its bounty.

"Oh, Great Manitou," she had begun, her voice hushed, each word a fragile seed cast into the vast, indifferent sky. "Creator of all." The vastness of the plains mirrored the immensity of their need. "May our hunting grounds be filled with meat to feed," she’d implored, picturing the lean bellies of her people, the hollow ache that gnawed at them with each passing day. The memory of a successful hunt, the triumphant shouts, the shared feast, felt like a dream from another life.

Her gaze drifted to the small pile of hides, thin and worn, offering little protection against the encroaching chill. "Fur to clothe," she continued, her voice catching slightly. The coarse texture of the pelts was a constant reminder of their vulnerability. They needed more, much more, to ward off the biting winds of winter.