Ode to Running Stream
by Kate Cowden
Quietness reigns, 'cept the frogs and the toads,
Running Stream tinkers o'er boulders, and knows
Flitting about after mayflies and gnats
Are robins and wrens, tree creepers and chats.
While summer's extremes give us fire and heat,
Our stream is a constant; clear, cold and sweet.
So green the pastures it waters downstream
To take it away from us: That would be mean.
Clear frosty mornings, spent mug in hand,
Pondering seasons and life on the land,
Scavenging firewood with wind in your face,
Snow blankets all: winter's embrace.
What is that booming o'er gully and dale?
What could it be? It's turning me pale
"Tis distant thunder", says them on the street,
Yet no thunder I know can shake my feet!
"There's coal in them hills," the prospector's told.
No secret to us, we'd known it from old:
How money has power to minds enslave,
Better cars, bigger houses, the lifestyle they crave
(Did they stop to consider it if fit in their grave?)
What of our mountain, its springs and its snow,
Its future uncertain 'cause of coal down below,
Our mountain, its forest and stream that we love
Sings praise to its maker and God above.