Taken a year after, in '77, it shows a slant of bluff littered with white horse bones - pelvises like a child's game of jacks. The men are under the buffalo grass, the canted sign - made from a hardtack box - scrawled, UNKNOWN. Toe crimped, one black boot heels into the ground among the white bones. In the lamp and bourbon bottle we share, you, whose 17th birthday present was Pearl Harbor, describe the graves near Normandy, flocks of white crosses - "What would they have done," you ask, still on your first Survivor's Leave granted in '41, "with another twenty, thirty years?" - the old scar on your cheek called out by shadows beyond the lamp. That year I memorized "Adeste fideles," a song I learned without understanding the words, and the teachers told us to put our heads between our knees - the whole school a fear of slivered glass minnows. Last year I climbed the bluff, paths and markers neat as Clausewitz, read how squaws "cut off the boot legs," the @3Far West@1 was draped in black. I bought Huffman's photograph of war's bare game: one black, boneless boot. But from this height, Little Bighorn is a wind of cottonwoods: their leaves, schools of fish, turning silver in the wind. |