I’ve known Belle Fourche. I’ve known a river with a fork in its route and old style throughout the town. Upset into tranquil flickering on and off like a light switch. I ride the horses as far as I can when yet another fight breaks out. I do ranch chores and water gun fights. I looked through the brush to find the old hide out broken from the wind. I hear wheat and alfalfa russell when the wild kittens run from Scotchy. I’ve known Beautiful Fork, Its streets full of old gossip as people come and go. I know its old problems and stories, but can’t make my own.