Rocks In The Stream
Bottom of the hill is a fast stream,
shallow current through rock careens,
never once gets past your knees,
under a bridge in a sylvan scene.
Most ignore it as they’re driving by,
young boys see it with prying eyes,
four down there, not even five,
building a dam, rocks piled up high.
Get a huge thrill when the waters rise,
packing mud in the gaps in the side,
to their minds a big flood tide,
their hands are small but their dreams wide.
A few feet away, one panning gold,
there’s a rich vein here, he’s told,
swirls like prospectors of old,
no luck yet, but he ain’t gonna fold.
Littlest one chases minnows fast,
tiny feet do nothing but splash,
runs a race, his mother laughs,
he ain’t gonna catch no dinner like that!
Sun’s coming down and it’s half past four,
they hate to leave, always want more,
have to hit the grocery store,
a tragedy when you’re only four.
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