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!"
