The river seems to sour and we can’t recall
who’s buried under the mound. We might guess
a name like Poor Bear. We might remember
the sequence: first, the crack of ice,
then tons of drowned bison pouring north,
and finally, for it was spring surely by then,
the crackpot preacher blew his trumpet
loud over the water and swans flew off.
With so much gone, it was natural to sell.
And it’s natural to want it back, not just
Beaverbank but the whole wide scene,
the far bank of sand, the three islands
named for Spanish ships and the evening sweep
of falcon counter current. The Missouri
releases and fills like a heart. Some new tenant
we hope will chase some old ghost away
and all swans come home. Surely it’s spring:
the cottonwood leaves turn over silver
and flash. We could dig and dig
and find no human remains. The mound?
That was an early joke of settlers.
They knew when they heaped the dirt and stomped it
round like the dome of some early tribe
we’d create the rest years later,
handsome bones and beads,
the sad tale of one who lost it all.
for Mildred