Come on down home

where the rivers so clean

you can drink right above

the Indians graves

buried deep beneath

the water.

A sun so bright

it sparkles silver

on the birch trees

with paisley patterns

on the tall  yellow grass.

Little bass jump high

in whirlpools of green

foam and mist.

Down the way a piece,

old men sit on wobbling

wooden chairs lined up

along the aging pier

with rusty wenches

and cracking barrels,

crab traps kicked

to the railing’s edge;

fishing line tangled

in knots as the sun

begins to slowly sink.

There is smell of rabbit

cooking on the fire

in the air like old times.

And a far away laughter;

pure pleasure.

Then the old men smile

their brown tobacco smiles.

They chew away and nod

their heads. Dusk is settling.

There is the calm

of days gone by.

The Indians left for the

high places to hunt.

Fishermen were rough and tumble

till it was all fished out.

Now, the old men dream

the dreams of all the

yesterdays.

No hurry, all things

come in time.

An orange, violet sunset

sends shifting rays

of rainbow light across

the trees and river

touching the old men’s faces.

You can hear the river singing;

sweet sound of life in motion.