Through a thin screen of golden aspens,
I hear those diesel engines roar.
The banshee scream, of steel on rock,
As they rip out the precious ore.
I rest my horse at the old Sheep Camp,
Thinkiní about Cliff McLean.
Who herded sheep and guided hunters,
And searched these hills in vain...
For that trace of precious metal,
That he so often claimed was here.
Itís just a bit Ironic,
That it turned out to be so near.
Other articles by Mike Puhallo