The Moccasins of an Old Man   I hung you there, moccasins of worn buckskin. I hung you there and there you are still. I took you from the hot flesh of a swift buck. I took you to my woman.   She tanned you with buck brains. She cut and sewed and beaded. I wore you with pride. I wore you with leaping steps over many grounds.   Now, I sit here and my bones are stiff with many winters. You hang there and I shall sit. We shall watch the night approach.   -Romona Carden (Colville)

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