Remembering Saint Charles Creek
Red and gray stone markers
lay upon the ground in shade
from giant firs older than memories.
The mine and cabin buried beneath a bulldozer's
push of soil and rock
hides the dreams of brothers.
Cattle keep alive the path
through willow and birch thickets;
the trail of transcendental fly fishermen.
Follow it and find
the gold of aspen leaves,
the silver of sunlit water.
Some dreams die, but not all of them.
There will always be boys tossing grasshoppers into the creek,
and at least one grown man doing the same.
