The Old Paths Remain

B

eside branch and leaf,

a convergence of streams

meanders beneath,

Their ancestor’s dreams.

And I bathed in song

Listen to her whispered tone

And followed along

where the Indians roamed:

These valley and hills

in search of big game,

A conquest of kills

for a tribe with no name.

Quartz and rock,

chisel and point,

Hunting the flock

for blood to anoint,

the meal of the past

for a family well fed

in the mountains so vast,

before the Cherokee fled.