Young Man River
by Wade Meyer
One time on an outing my family and I went .
To western Oregon's waters framed by cathedral trees.
There ran a swift small stream close to the road it seems.
Our father pulled over to a spot where we could go explore.
But I stood with hands on hips looking down across the shore.
My attention drawn to round stones where water trickled over.
The sound it made was garbled. Voices mournful and hollow.
I picked up boulders, moved stones by rolling and found;
Voices changing low, and high brightly in sound.
My family wandered and explored.
But I stayed working not in the least bit bored.
With shoes and arms wet I toiled on, absorbed.
Everyone began returning back;
Into the car they clamber.
Hurried, I worked quicker with my work in that river.
Finally, my mother grew impatient, down to that river she went.
"Wade we wait and need to hurry on; what is that you're doing?"
"Ma, its the river, the sound, it needed tuning."