! spent a winter one summer on the Fortymile
near Tom's place not far from Chicken.
It was warm enough in the sun when it was
shining, all right, but once clouds obscured
the sun and the frigid Fortymile engulfed
the sweating prospector, one's blood
ran cold and you had a foretaste of cold
death in that murky river where we dredged
for that black sand with minute specks
of the precious yellow metal we called
chickenfeed, a name Anchorage Mike
had called the stuff we culled from the frigid
waters not far from the namesake town!
I still got a coffee can of the stuff downstairs~
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice snapshot of panning for gold or being on the prospector trail.I noticed you like to write in freeform-very good images you portray your thoughts well.