In my dreams, I have a canoe large enough to save the bison from extinction. It rests on the backs of magical eagles that carry the bison to the Great Plains in the Clouds, far away from the white men with unkempt hair, angry beards, and guns; they who rampage against the landscape, throw up dust, and wage war with the natural order of the world.
In my dreams, the bison create a mighty storm. They thunder across the skies and exhale lightning, so the white men tremble and their spurs crackle.
In my dreams, the meaningless treaties never happened.