It was the perfect place for boys,
the trestle, the faltering remains
of stone columns that once supported
the steel beams and rails of the Blue Jay
Lumber Company Railway.

Stones worn smooth on the edges,
our own Sphinx slowly crumbling
to sand in the currents of Beaver Creek.
The velvety limestone tops served
as diving platforms, sun-tanning lounges
and classrooms, as older boys parted
the sea of confusion and led the young.

While others split the water
with nut-crushers, I pawed through
some shale, twisted it apart like an Oreo.
Inside was an immaculate black fern.
I cupped my hands over it and sniffed.
I wanted to taste the same air as the dinosaurs.

This poem first appeared in Loch Raven Review, Summer 2007 Issue.
Copyright by Steve Meador. Used with the author's permission.