He lives an hour outside of Billings
The distant hills are brown and sere
The wind plays tricks outside your hearing
And whispers lies into your ears
He's got a station at a crossroads
He's got war medals in his den
He's got a wife in the county hospice
She's not coming home again
He filled my tank and cleaned the windshield
He popped the hood and checked the oil
He wiped his hands upon his chinos
His eyes were as dark as prairie soil
He said, "Do you know of the Sleeping Buffalo?
They're about a half an hour away
A ring of sacred stones upon a hilltop
That's what the Indians say
The Indians gathered in the springtime
Bearing gifts for the Buffalo
The white men set the stones in concrete
Behind a fence beside the road
I used to go when I was younger
Before I fought in Hitler's war
Now it's a park for the goddam tourists
I won't go there anymore"
He said, "Son I ain't no Indian
You can look at me and tell
But ba*tards like Custer had it coming
I hope he's burning still in hell"
I left him at that windy crossroads
The shades of night began to fall
I thought I'd drive toward the sunset
And pay the Buffalo a call
The sun was just below the hilltops
The night wind pulled me by my shirt
I walked toward the granite figures
Behind the fence, set in the dirt
They loomed dull grey in the gathering twilight
I saw faded paint of red and blue
Some ancient hand had chiseled markings
Now a graven image for a roadside zoo
But I drew near I saw the flowers
Tobacco and fresh cartridges lay near
And so, for some faithful unseen wanderers
The Buffalo's spirit lingers here