It Ain't Over Until
We're Smoking Cigars
On The Drill Pad
These poems and words are incomplete, thousands showed up to the camps and this is just my perspective. part of me wants nothing but to write about the aching beauty of seeing every little tribe in the country and more come to Standing Rock, to tell of the canoes coming to camp, the heartbreak of ever brutal action, the cold indifference of the government, the weird mixed blessings of the Veterans, the behind the scenes heroes and social media cowards and vultures. There comes a point where you have to call it and let it be, that point is here.
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