They have stolen our tongues. But the thunder our hooves made comes back in the rain, sometimes hail or when wind carries the ghosts of our bad dreams away. The dust that was our dust lines up in furrows. Wherever the plow turns, our bones turn over in graves - ours and the Arikaras, Piegan, and Sioux, sharing the empty sky we used to share, those good dreams when everyone was free. Who dances the wolf dance now? Who follows the dark trail where the tall Oglala counted coup, his beautiful horse crazy with blood, his body adorned for war, the shadows of the Little Big Horn fading away?