War Poem 3

Bred on westerns, in childhood
Games I used to say:
I’m tired of playing cowboy always
Let me be the redskin—
Light of tread
Silent as old roots of trees
Tracks lost in streams
Smell of dreams carried
By no wind, I stalk
The enemy in the cold rain.
As he warms his belly with coffee
I make my move—
No leaves crackling under my feet
No cavalry coming in time to save him.