Hornbrook No longer a logging town The old houses and streets Wait in hopes Of a future blossoming. The Klamath River Tempts consciousness With grains of gold Though any Klamath maidens Haven't entered yet. A few Tibetan Buddhists Build energy with rituals While writers and musicians Weave in threads. How many other minds, How many other towns, Also wait? Can they change From Enigma Variations To Mysterious Mountains? Will humans of the future Stand proud Or be an object lesson. James F. Newell
