Names Disappearing, Dakota By Debra Nystrom

Day by day the Missouri dropping lower under empty sky

that had drained Okobojo, No Heart Creek, Whiteman Draw; every

night still no moisture. Finally, a season late, the raw

parched air turned and gathered over hardpan above Oahe,

grumbling then breaking open all at once, sending runnels across the flats

to spread and join and drag toward the river’s edge snatches of roots

torn from ground where wind had settled the seeds once. Afterwards

Will and Ellie, tromping in mud, scanned the rutted cow-paths for arrowheads

that might’ve surfaced—traces of Black Buffalo, Big Foot,

Touch the Clouds—quartz or chert or flint notched, chipped to different

sizes and points for buffalo, deer, pheasant flushed out with a human howl,

maybe with fire lit to the grasses, bitter scent of ash twisting in dust Ellie could smell

like her own name unraveling, as she poked a glittering rock

with her stick, heard the  meadowlarks question change to sputter, last flick

of wings. Whatever she and Will might lift, turn over in their hands, take home,

hide among their things—even relief after rain did not belong to them.