I want this to be effective but not so much story. Where can I cut and still show the picture?
Cherokee: To New Lands
Feather-of-the-dawn rose quickly
from the leaves, picked up her baby,
stumbled on before the guard spoke.
A weary mind could hardly imagine
many more miles. Seven hundred
they had walked and more months
than she could remember since leaving
home along the creek.
The great river lay far behind
as they walked weary mile after mile
toward “the territory” white man gave them.
She must believe it would be a better place,
that it would have rivers with fish,
that it would have deer for hunters,
and room for Walking Feather,
a grandson of a Cherokee chief,
to grow strong, to learn white ways—
to survive. She must get him there.
Four summers now, he seldom cries.
He grows like corn in the sunlight.
Soon the column will stop for the day
and she can get her ration of corn
and water—no milk for Walking Feather—
he can have some of her ration
so he will stay strong. He mustn’t die,
not like Bowing Willow’s son, and
Morning Dove’s son, and Chinna’s son,
and twins of Palia who also grows pale
and travels on a travois.
Joy! Word has come. In two days
they will reach this land called “territory”.
Soldiers say it is green unlike here.
Feather-of-the-dawn can’t believe
it can change from dry barren land
they have passed through, but she must.
Her prayers tonight of thanksgiving
rise on wings as evening birds
sing whip-poor-will to the moon.
Cherokee: To New Lands
Feather-of-the-dawn rose quickly
from the leaves, picked up her baby,
stumbled on before the guard spoke.
A weary mind could hardly imagine
many more miles. Seven hundred
they had walked and more months
than she could remember since leaving
home along the creek.
The great river lay far behind
as they walked weary mile after mile
toward “the territory” white man gave them.
She must believe it would be a better place,
that it would have rivers with fish,
that it would have deer for hunters,
and room for Walking Feather,
a grandson of a Cherokee chief,
to grow strong, to learn white ways—
to survive. She must get him there.
Four summers now, he seldom cries.
He grows like corn in the sunlight.
Soon the column will stop for the day
and she can get her ration of corn
and water—no milk for Walking Feather—
he can have some of her ration
so he will stay strong. He mustn’t die,
not like Bowing Willow’s son, and
Morning Dove’s son, and Chinna’s son,
and twins of Palia who also grows pale
and travels on a travois.
Joy! Word has come. In two days
they will reach this land called “territory”.
Soldiers say it is green unlike here.
Feather-of-the-dawn can’t believe
it can change from dry barren land
they have passed through, but she must.
Her prayers tonight of thanksgiving
rise on wings as evening birds
sing whip-poor-will to the moon.