There was a river under First and Main;
the salt mines honeycombed farther down. 
A wealth of sun and wind ever so strong 
converged on that home town, long gone.  
 
At the north edge there were the sand hills. 
I used to stare for hours at prairie dogs, 
which had their town, and folded their little paws 
to stare beyond their fence where I was.  

River rolling in secret, salt mines with care 
holding your crystals and stillness, north prairie — 
what kind of trip can I make, with what old friend, 
ever to find a town so widely rich again?   

Pioneers, for whom history was walking through dead grass, 
and the main things that happened were miles and the time of day—
you built that town, and I have let it pass. 
Little folded paws, judge me: I came away.