Thanksgiving, 1838

Walk on past the fallen.

Their faith-man spoke of feast plenty to celebrate survival.

I wonder if he'd thought of us who won't make a spring arrival.

I speak their tongue, I read their words, but not I know their greed.

For land, for sea, for tree and sky - so much more than need.

I have no thanks that I can give, save only for my brother.

He marches on beside me still - gone father, child and mother.

If thanks they give, the reason shouldn't be,

for feast in face of starvation -

better they should offer thanks for so small a Cherokee Nation...