Fifty yards from Crooked Creek
a soft breeze blew through the cottonwoods
on a Kansas farm.
Dust muffled voices are heard through
the sound of metal and other hand tools
hitting the soil.
Unearthed pieces of pottery, a stone pipe and
shell beads from the Gulf Coast
amongst pebbles and dry soil.
In the dark colored ashes
scattered corn cob remains
and remnants of buffalo bone
let one know they stood where others had lived
and lingered long ago.
Voices of present became quiet as the sounds of the past
hit the sound waves proclaiming. “We were once here.”