The Berry Patch was the destination of this poem. I remember going and believe it was a restaurant in a nearby town.
Railroads and narrow bridge
golden grass along the ridge
slight hills and hair pin curves
builds character and strengthens the nerves.
Bails of hay and creek beds dry
middle of nowhere, just a drive
few trees dotted here and there
make a decision
don’t shed a tear.
One dirt road for seemingly miles on end
finally payment, but no sign of our friends
finally through the dust and the grime
our friends arrived safely from the climb.
Black Butte Lake’s a pretty good size
old twisted signs to confuse the eyes.
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