The watcher on her porch, alone,
Where Fortune lived in days bygone,
She knows the stories; knows the names
Of all the miners and their claims.
She came out here a slip of four
Calling it home for ninety more.
Shotgun in hands, she rocks her chair,
Guarding the miners and their claims.
She waits for packrats, dawn to dusk,
Who’d cart her town...
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