Drove through Browning,
west of Glacier
on the Blackfoot Reservation,
place of no outward warmth,
stands alone on the barren high plains.
The twisted wreckage of a town,
built on the bones of broken promises,
hope leans hard here,
harder than the telephone poles,
matchstick effigies.
The sky hangs low and grey,
pressing lazily against the town,
where no one walks at dusk
except to chance fate
or buy a lottery ticket at the grocery store
I saw a girl skipping, around her backyard
filled with rusty wheel hubs,
she climbed up the unpainted fence
peering at the cars driving by,
her hair wrapped around her face.
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