Towns, carved out of sage and barren land,
grew overnight; then the silver or gold mines
petered out, or fire tore through rough hewn
log buildings. Life in that place folded and left.

Loading their carts, hopefuls wandered to another
patch of sticker bushes. The men dug holes in hillsides,
built small mines, threw up see-through shacks, where
tin can lids were nailed over gaps so snow couldn’t
invade. Water was hauled sometimes a mile or two.

Wives cooked over campfires or in small fireplaces,
beat grimy clothes almost clean in buckets
of precious water, or in streams if they were lucky.

Children played tag between tall bushes, put
together rough forts on dusty lots, and chased
jackrabbits. School happened at home with Mom,
by firelight, after chores.

These days huge RVs and SUVs drive quickly
past these hardscrabble sites; children glance
once at ruins of what was, only grow excited
when they spy ice cream stores or shops
that sell plastic toys made in China.