--at the painter George Catlin's Sideshow of Native Americans,
  Vauxhall Gardens, London, Summer 1844-- 

Dorothy and William wander 
    Vauxhall Garden's 
Rotunda and lawns, 
    amused by 
the musicians' off-key Handel.  
    Only to come upon--
as if by accident-- 
    the Iowas' camp fires:  
White Cloud calming his horse, 
    Little Wolf 
with a bone rattle, 
    singing.  

They watch Chief Walking Rain 
    body adorned 
with red streaks, circles, 
    a bearclaw necklace, 
begin his 
    mock assault 
on horseback. 

Dorothy calls him a hermit
    like the ones 
she and William meet
    in a copse of beeches, 
where thrushes nest.
    It's as if she's stumbled
into a poem by William.  
    Her mind ablaze with headaches--
with the day's 
    clouded splendor.  

Such energy and confusion!
    she sighs, believing herself 
lost--poor mad sister 
    who complains now to William 
of the city's summer heat, 
    of how yesterday he left her 
to explore London--alone, 
    only a nurse for company, 
a book, unread 
    when at dusk he found her, 
 confused, chattering 
    to no one 
at Kensington Market.

William can't cheer Dorothy.
    Or lift her spirits, 
when she longs to be 
    back among brooks and glens.
He wonders aloud 
    about Strutting Pigeon, Fast Dancer,
musing to Dorothy, 
    with a laugh:  

"They look out of place,
    as I feel we must be--
these Indians prancing
    in feathered costumes,
as we gaze
    upon their savage
dances in buffalo robes."

With Dorothy his mood
    glistens,
catching light,
    which he proclaims:
An earthly music.
    Breezes sallying
 as they do in Grassmere vales.

"Aren't the teepees  
    a revelation?" William asks--
"Isn't Catlin's sideshow 
    a welcome respite 
from London's chaos,  
    from our duties here?"

But Dorothy doesn't notice 
    William's questions, 
or the Iowas' 
    chanting as they recreate 
for the enthralled few 
    an aura of life 
camped beside 
    the fast-flowing Missouri.

"Such exuberance!"
    William says in praise
to Dorothy, distracted.  
    Dorothy who closes her eyes, 
says merely, "Let us 
    go home---"

as she holds tightly 
    to her dearest 
brother William, 
    and hears a war-cry, 
sacred songs 
    like the warblers  
who haunt thickets, 
    fir-groves,
in her meadow ranging, 
    Ambleside's 
calm fragrant airs.