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.
