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Then came a silence, a hush that only solitude knows
The hazy sun, diving to the horizon all aglow
Peeked, all other sounds, tho faint, seems to explode
Hidden now, a trail, reverent americans once rode
Shadows grow, the bouquet of color dims and greys
Light diminished, familiarity rushes from this place
Exhaling breath that finds the exit difficult to behold
A piece not to be touched wishes for the days of old
Not to fear, atrocities, adventure, stories not passed on
What of this spot? Man and nature have tread upon
There are stories in every stone, in each ancient tree
Who, if any, were along this trail, witness to see?
Many running aloof, bestowed in them a respect
Content they were, their future they could not protect
Skies open in all directions, they have seen, seen all
The lands the same, mostly, many did rise and fall
Progress wandered along this way defined by the ages
Leaving the open, the expanse, in some sort of cages
Winds still blow, visions distorted, unreal still appear
Or maybe it’s a trick, played on all whom traverse here
Hark! The rustle along the edge draws all away
The breeze that blew then still rushes the same way
Truths hide in sight, protected by the wild, and time
Tarry longer, that age is gone, only remnants to find
Perhaps, as it should be, to save the stories for those,
The ones unspoiled, passed down by the ones that know
Treading on ground, leaving this place, quivering alone
A sachem long gone could draw the past from a stone
So it remains, the places we see, only a trace to then
Lest we forget all, a time, we must remember had been
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Posted in Photography, Poetry
Tagged forgotten, History, John Muir, love of the land, Native American, Photography, Poetry and tagged american, reverence, tribute to the past, unspoiled, wild west