ON SEEING THE LITTLE BIG HORN

Two hundred sixteen soldiers died here

A hundred eleven years ago

For reasons not to be fathomed.

Here in this barren sea of brown grass,

In twos and threes, they died

For reasons not to be fathomed.

White stone markers straggle

Up the treeless hillsides where they died

For reasons not to be fathomed.

Each stone reads, "A U.S. soldier died here,

June 24, 1876," but does not add,

"For reasons not to be fathomed."

Imagination does not dress the field in tragic robes,

Nor lionize the ones who died

For reasons not to be fathomed.

Nor cast it as a place of gallant deeds,

But one of painful, futile deaths

For reasons not to be fathomed.

It is a silent place and deathly still,

Where in thirst and abject fear Men died

For reasons not to be fathomed.

It is a sobering place, which empties out the soul

That wonders why men make war

For reasons not to be fathomed.

And into that void of emptied soul

Crawl no insights into deaths

For reasons not to be fathomed.