The Little Big Horn

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:      You are drawn to it as if by a magnet,  This place where good men of both races died.  As you enter the main building,  there is a hush, making it known that something both glorious and terrible happened here.  You peer at the pictures and artifacts, yet you feel the need to see for yourself what happened here.
:      You have already seen the white fenced monument and a few of the white stones and you feel the foreboding that is this place.  you immediately sense the desolation. Sun bleached dry grass and sage, little brush and an openness that few have ever experienced.  Heat waves dance over the land, blurring and mystifying the far stretched scene. And last,  the white stones, more wherever you look.
:      On the trails,  you meet others returning, most with bowed heads.
: You look for recognizable points from the brochures, but cannot read, your attention riveted to the scene ahead. At first you expect to see survivors of the battle returning to whatever is left.  Then the finality begins to sink in.  You read most of the stones and wonder
: why they read,  U.S. Soldier fell here.  You search the terrain around you, looking for ambush points,  almost wondering if you are next to feel a bullet.
:      You take the road, first to Custer Hill,  then on to the south, winding along the ridge, finding more and more stones.  First a few,  then groups and strings of them.  you see the battle as it was,  layed out for you, as far as the eye can see and know there is 
: more ahead. 
:      When you return, you need to leave this place, but cannot.  You are humbled and awed by what transpired here. You look again at the distant scene, then the at the details of what you have seen. Again you are struck by the vastness and the desolation and the waving grass.  When you do leave, you are very quiet.  There is not much to say; nothing that can change the history of this place.
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