We Can't Turn Back Now

A group of six stood, a tight circle,
shadows, inside barren woods, a border,
a flat frozen field, directly ahead,
each investigated.

A demon, piercing wind, howled, plagued, dared, the desperate ones,
filling the waxing moon sky with penetrating ice specks, from the field’s surface, whipping them violently then suddenly dissipating them, before the
tornadoes of ice crystals flying off the field would loft again.

In the black night,
brilliant white light-beams shown,
stars seen through the broken layer
of clouds.

“We have to cross that field.”
“It looks far across.”
“We could stay to the woods and walk around.”
“No, take too long, too far!”

“The National Guard will be everywhere after sunrise.”
“The storm is passing, the wind dying.”
“They will fly helicopters.”
“Vigilantes find us out there, no place to hide.”

The six walked onto that frozen field, carrying a burlap bag with a rope 
tied at each end and swung over the shoulder, or a heavy backpack of supplies, ammunition, weapons for Menominee Warriors Society occupiers 
of the Alexian Brothers Noviciate.

At the break of dawn, near the west edge of the field, another thirty feet
they would climb a ridge, be back into the woods, each member of the group
was exhausted, experiencing hypothermia, when their feet broke through
the surface crusts into ankle-deep water.

The water had collected after the 
ground froze, protected from frost under a
layer of thin ice, snow
at the ridge line.

“We can’t turn back now.”


Gresham, Wisconsin, 1975

Dedication: To have lived in the time of Mike Sturdevant, John Waubanascum, Neil Hawpetos, in an era of warriors' putting their life and wellbeing on the line.