The baby moon, a canoe, a silver papoose canoe,

sails and sails in the Indian west.

A ring of silver foxes, a mist of silver foxes,

sit and sit around the Indian moon.

One yellow star for a runner, and rows of blue stars for more runners,

keep a line of watchers.

O foxes, baby moon, runners, you are the panel of memory,

fire-white writing to-night of the Red Man's dreams.

Who squats, legs crossed and arms folded,

matching its look against the moon-face, the star-faces, of the West?

Who are the Mississippi Valley ghosts, of copper foreheads, riding

wiry ponies in the night?—no bridles, love-arms on the pony necks,

riding in the night a long old trail?

Why do they always come back when the silver foxes sit

around the early moon, a silver papoose, in the Indian west?