We had a good thing going—the Indigenous people and me. They left no footprints. 

Then the loud ones came, sticking stakes in me, upturning, trampling, and spoiling me. 

The worst was when weighty boots dug in their heels, and the rhythmic dance of bare feet turned to thundering thumps of war. As the blood of my people seeped into my soil, I knew I would be forever stained. 

Sadly, the songs of the Indigenous grew faint, dispersing and fading into the distance… and finally fell silent.  

Where were the tears for us when the Wild West was won?