The River still runs.
Into The Illinois,
Down into The Mississippi,
South through St. Louis and New Orleans
Into the Gulf of Mexico,
Flowing endlessly down, carrying
Sticks and stones and mud and leaves and waste from Spoon River
Into the Gulf and beyond.

The Hill still stands. Steadfast through
Storms and rain and thunder and lightning and sunny days and clear, starlit nights.
And the sleep of those on the Hill is unbroken, yet their voices still whisper
Into the wind and the shadows,
Their voices still scream over the thunder,
And the lightning illuminates the graves from which the voices speak.
For just a second.

For a hundred years the voices told their stories and we listened.
Five generations have passed and the voices have not changed.
Where are the children of the voices on the Hill?
And their children, and their children’s children?
Who will tell their stories?
Will anyone listen?
Phil Lindsey 8/3/14