There were many a time I’d lay my head
To rest beside my hollowed birch
With ‘naught in dreams to think upon
Too tired my bones
Too weary my brain.
I’d wake upon the next ‘morns journey
And weigh my back with trader’s fortune,
On the nineties, the currency pile lay deep.
The mink
The beaver
The buck
The buffalo
They heaved themselves upon the Mississippi
To sway asleep in my canoe ‘till they awakened
To be a coat
To be a hat.
Now, I sleep to restless thoughts
The ending times observe my breed.
The fur trader
The voyageur
The Indian.
Pushed aside by silk and rail
By Native’s leave
On sadness trail.
To where the beaver
No longer play.
To where the buffalo
No room to stay.
The plains grow crop and town.
The mountain echoes to closer sound.
The voyageur paddle replaced by steam.
So now I draw upon my pipe
And reflect on travels I have seen
The outposts
The rendezvous camps
And fellow travelers
I’ve known by chance.
Originally Posted On Site: 2010-03-06 03:42:38
Last Login: 11.05.11
Visits as of 12-12-07: 204
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