It was a forest for millennia

And then Tribes came and stayed for centuries,

Natives that cracked the stones

At the creeks bank

To make war paints and dye from their powders.

Colonists came and the Tribes became cities.

For a century homes were made from timber

And fields spanned for miles.

Land given and edges marked with sandstones,

Passed through generations.

Roads were paved and the town grew.

Six thousand lived here for eighty three years.

Farms shrunk and timber lands grew,

Large chicken houses and fields of cattle

And huge trucks moved trees twice their size.

Now the timber was still an industry for the town,

Chickens and cattle too.

A huge factory built machines in the town,

And the lake was a get-away

But Main Street was crumbling.

We had our chances to thrive

But greed held the town back.

Youth left, in pursuit of better things,

Knowing we had nothing to offer

Except our famous machinery.

I still live here

On land that was owned since...

I’ve forgotten the rough estimate.

The town has not crept out to us yet

And the creek bed a has dried.

If you look around though

At the banks you may find the red stones,

With their colorful dyes, and arrowheads,

The sandstone, that marked the edge of our home

And the forgotten trinkets of my family’s past.

This is my land; what is not my land is my family’s.

I still have the stones of the Natives.

I still have the homes of the Colonists.

I still have the wagon the farmers used before me.

I have chickens to tend and machines to be fixed.

Our family is sunken in this town

We were simple farmers, though no longer.

We were here when the town was founded

And it is our fate to be here when the town lies abandoned.