Traveler, watch out!

The old log fort in Fort Ann

Was built close to the river.

The soldiers would fish on Sunday

And throw their garbage in on Mondays.

I imagine the letters those soldiers wrote:

"I think only of what I'm going to do

When the war is over . . ."

Or, "Three Indians camped here yesterday.

We traded a pot for a beaded belt."

Now the same sad river

Flows beneath a hodge-podge of grey ice.

Whenever I drive by the fort

On my way to the valley

I look away.

There is no place for a fort

In my dreaming.

But let Valeri Petrov end this poem:

"Traveler, watch out!

Don't look back!"