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The rivers are racing with a glee of free morning stampede today
carrying the currency of silted centuries and the cool silk of the wind's summer saga,
within my heart I feel the rambunctious rush of wanderlust
this river is tempting us to bleed for treasure, for the culture of eons
as I hear my Co-Captain William Clark hollar to the enlisted men...
Here we go you sons of no remorse,
row 'till you know the love of pain!...
this is where life stops teaching and begins to dare the soul,
as we leave the east for the west the current catches us 
with no care for our course and the history of our hopes hurrying in swift season,
releasing the prayer I wrote on poor man's paper onto the water's skin
it looks as if a "shooting star" is flying straight into the hands of the Almighty,
we all signed it with our own blood, including York, the childhood slave of Clark's,
for some of us the names and rules of Faith vary
but we all know that we won't succeed without Divine guidance
as love can't live devoid of devotion
and children won't laugh denied freedom,

To enter the Missouri's portal we must travel across the Mississippi diagonally
trouble will acquaint well if we get swept past that point, morale could sink,
our keelboat, Destiny, 55 feet long, 8 feet broad is built to battle all obstacles inclement
to slice the water wide and to plunge through dread like a blood spruced spearhead,
she be our vessel to victory, the four canoes are the seahorses of the campaign
and at this treacherous moment they are galloping forward undaunted, guided with expertise,
we are moving as a minute hand of fortune on the clock of mayhem
and the seconds are smiling as glimmers of chance trailing in the mist of ambition,
we are in, thank Deity, we are in,
Colter and Drouillard nearly had their wrists snapped from paddle pressure
while Private Shanon almost got his eye gouged out by an overhanging oak,
for an hour the crew has paddled with diligent rage to hardly gain a mile
up the Missouri's mystery, it's current must be 10 mph against us 
with a stout wind that speaks of wild contempt which fatigues us into awe,
we have our own tricks though, I ordered the men to employ the iron tipped poles
they shall walk the deck of Destiny, six on each side stabbing into the thick waterway, 
blisters will billow on their hands but this be the price for faster progress,

J.A.B.
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