Gold Rush Dreams

The smell of burnin' hickory permeates the campsite,
as morning doves announce the dawn and coming of the day...
the clink of kettles and coffee pots bang out a syncronous rhythm,
mimicking a calypso band from far away.


Eggs and bacon crackling on cast iron,
children stir and the camp dogs begin their play,
the sun cresting just over the horizon....
hints of strong winter fast approaching;
the men speak of it most of the day.


So soon we must prepare to break camp...lookin' west;
some with eyes peerless...some full of fright.
The men and boys tie up the teams, and shake off the cold and damp from the night...
Folks say ther's likely to be injun's or the like where we go, 
but we have enough fixin's and powder to keep us...
before it's time to sow.


So we move on... westward bound, mile by mile, in search of our dreams...
Livin' for the day when we'll lay sight...
on those gold shiny clusters,
and cascading  silver streams.


Greg Sexton