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THESE HILLS ARE MINE Eleanor P. Madsen Ephraim, Utah Honorable Mention Poetry These hills are mine. In their shadows I have grown. From Towhead to Mooseneiah I claim them for my own; The Maples and the Aspen groves, Horsehoe, streaked with waning snow, The Danish Knoll and Bluebell Plats Where walk the soft-eyed doe. These hills are mine, Echoes , a hundred summers old. By rocky ledge and Pidgeon creek, Head-feathered red men, bold, Hid their plunder, pitched their tents By the ponds, John August Lake; Made their trails over the ridges, Watched the sleeping forest wake. These hills are mine, Where sound of wood and steel are one. Lean, straight father with his axe Toiled in the fingered, summer sun. From the sawmill to the town, He guided oxen with their heavy load, Giant logs of balsam, spruce and fir, Along a ridge called Wagon Road. These hills are mine, Where roamed the transient sheep. The eager lad, with willow staff, Trailed his flock up the canyon steep, Along the quickening, crystal stream. He brought the lamb to the campfire bright At the coyote's cry, in the half-sound, Half silence of the leaf-still night. 52 |
