A Seaman's Poems

From the Edge of Reality

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The First Ones

by Mark Seaman


I stand on a hill and think of the First Ones.

I look to the West where the mountains loom, shining in the morning sun.

I think of the First Ones to this place.

Wintering in the highlands to avoid the heat.

I notice the valley is filled with urban sprawl.

I look to the North where the mountains run out, and the snows run deep.

I think of the First Ones to this place.

Living in tents made of buffalo hides moving as the herds move.

I notice the condos and strip malls that fill the space.

I look to the East where the great plains go forever.

I think of the First Ones to this place.

Hunting the buffalo and living on pemmican.

I notice the interstate following the tracks following the river.

I look to the South where the gold brought the white men, and all their strange ways.

I think of the First Ones to this place.

Living a simple but hard life.

I marvel at the progress we have made, when I think of the First Ones to this place.

I wonder what has been lost.