Along the Moose

River. Beneath a wooden bridge
beside an overgrown park

swirling soufflés of foamy bubbles
race branches---a stream
in southerly flow.

Around the bend it ripples,
overcomes a mound
of stone. Aware of my presence
a squirrel skitters up a tree.

I am like a child with peanut butter
fingers, day-dreaming of a huge fish,
worm-hooked below surface

my childhood not yet aware of
a nearby plaque reading:
“In ’36 three men entombed
141 feet below, seeking crowns
of gold within the granite,
one man died.”

Steeped in time the mining
village remains somber,
at attention beside a graveled road

tall- tales of wealth replaced by
peace and simplicity, a windy lullaby
wrapped in clusters of aspen.

© Richard L. Provencher
Website: www.wsprog.com/rp/