A thousand years ago, right here where I stand, hunters with long black braids
Stone weapons, tattoos on their chest – the Osage
Followed the trail the animals always knew where to go
The hunters gave the trail a name, which now nobody knows
I’m just passing through the same space in a different time
I know that in the end this is their place as much as mine
They left their bones and blood in the dirt here bestowed
Ghosts of the Old Wire Road
Much later, white explorers mapped the region using the Trail north and south
By 1839 the Europeans had driven all the Indians out (It was part of the Trail of Tears)
The trail became the Butterfield Line for the Overland Mail Company, a two-horse stage where the railroad didn’t go
Dipping south into Arkansas then west all the way to San Francisco
The Trail served both the Union and Confederate armies moving supplies and troops
At about the same time the Telegraph Wire was built along the well-worn route
Bushwackers pillaged homesteads and farms that had sprung up along the Road
And the old way stations for the stage either grew into small towns or faded away
The automobile lead to the road being paved
The Telegraph came down, utility lines went up
Majestic Oak Trees from before the Civil War
A few remained in the spreading neighborhoods’ backyards