Image by Rennett Stowe via Flickr

Years ago when our country was young;

a band of Indians lived in mud domes.

Dessert and barren mountains was their

empty dream; their people’s home for eons

it seems.

Roots and lizards they sought to survive;

so few and so tired their dream

had died.

They had little time building flimsy stick;

blown away in the winter’s slick.

Shredded by dust and summer smoke,

they had to find food; they

were always broke.

No ceremonies to cheer their souls;

no food so they resorted to

slaughtering fouls.

Some tried to work with little

skill…many were shunned and

finally killed.

Beggars they became.

Through it all they managed

to stay on their native soil;

too worthless to move

white man said.

No burial ground for legacy sake

what was it worth

to count their dead?

Thousands of years these people

endured; the hunger, the pain

and the white man smirked.

Does anyone know

if any Diggers exists?

Does anyone care if they are

on an ancestor list?