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 the grounds.
Now I sit and my bones are stiff
with many winters.
You hang there and I shall sit.
We shall watch the night approach.
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