Storms batter the windshield. He turns and points.
There. That’s the place. As lightning slivers fall
on a dropping river brimful with trout
that raise themselves to lay themselves in creels.
The car falls suddenly through walls of stone
on a town where sunlight patterns the streets.
Ghost town. Silver's what they took out of here.
The gold's up north. Then we climb, looking
for rainbows on the sky, and stop to rest
above a lake riddled by rain. The clouds
press down, obscure the ragged granite peaks.
There's a miner's shack hidden there in mist,
up that trail we'll climb tomorrow. We pitch
our tent and eat beans huddled from the cold.
Originally published in Ball State University Forum. Autumn 1985 .
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