Sitting a stone's throw from the past,
the last one in a line of traditions.
Next to a gaping tunnel,
stamped 'Built In 1911', under a now
gimped RailRoad track.

This was a boomtown long ago; River barges dropping off mail and memories,
miner's on horseback, Ladies in hats, mutts and
mules, trains rolling past from Chinese labor, among
Indian Hosts.

Now it sits, vacant, but for me and the roaring river,
resting on the ferry, that travels shore to shore,
waiting to take someone across,
watching down a road of memories, life's long history.

There's a bridge being built, by a mouse and a modem
using all modern technology,
A reaching arm, just to connect me.

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