Prospector At the Intersection

It was just another road construction Of a brand new super highway, Only seconds just saved from destruction On that cold, cloudy winter day. The back hoe was about to crush it sure, When the archeologist whoaed— And they gently pried open and then tore The pine box so long ago sowed. Inside were some old fragile human bones, And shreds of a prospector’s clothes— An old hat and boots brown with earth’s tones— Someone long dead from the gold rush’s throes. Construction was briefly halted right there For sonar searches of that land— Finding echoes from more graves safe from care, Laid to rest by a loving hand. And so the decision will then be made To cover or just move them all— As the simple plans of man are then laid For a graveyard or shopping mall. And the story will so quickly just dim Of that lost prospector’s demise— As none care what ever happened to him, As a gull wings out toward the west and flies.