The Shot

The rifle felt heavy, cold in the boy’s hands,
a weight he'd only known in practice.
His father said a porcupine
could wreck a dog, strip bark from trees,
a pest to be rid of, nothing more.

He saw it in the early morning mist,
a slow shape waddling under the pines—
quills like glass needles catching light,
black eyes steady, unaware.

He steadied his aim, held his breath—
a twitch of his trigger finger,
then the crack of a shot,
sharp as shattered glass.
The recoil and the scent 
of gunsmoke linger.

The porcupine shuddered,
turned its small, dark face toward him,
as if it saw the boy behind the gun
and forgave him for not yet knowing
what it meant to take a life.

It staggered then, into the brush,
a trail of blood beading on the ground
like berries crushed beneath a boot.

And when the boy found it among 
the trees and fallen leaves,
he looked at his own hands—
then turned them away,
as if they had grown thorns.

Clayton Campbell Gemmell holds a rifle and a porcupine he shot. Gemmell was born on September 24, 1897, in Blaine Township, Benzie County, Michigan.  Photo date circa 1912. Clayton lived to be 81 and died in 1979 in Columbia, TN. BAHS 2516.

The Fossil Beds Remember

For Harv Burman
An Elegy

At Florissant, where time is pressed flat
and memory sleeps in pages of paper-thin shale,
a voice moved through ponderosa shade,
steady as the winding trail.
 
Harv Burman walked to the outcrop’s edge,
where an ancient lake once held the sky,
and coaxed the quiet earth to speak
of giant sequoias that turned to stone,
and insects pressed into carbon whispers.
 
He turned fossils into stories, and stories into awe.
Kneeling beside a slab of shale, he waited
for a child to see the leaf imprinted there.
The young grew excited. The old looked on
and remembered how to wonder.
 
Along the trail, where the shadows settle
Deep on the shale and weathered soil,
the warm, clear echo of Harv Burman stays,
woven forever into the place he loved.

The Big Stump, Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument. Photo by S. W. Veatch.

Note: This post carries a quiet grief for our community, for the paleontology community, and for anyone who ever walked the trails of Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument. Harv Burman, a beloved summer seasonal ranger at the Monument for many years, recently passed away. Season after season, Harv returned to the Florissant Fossil Beds, bringing warmth, patience, and an unwavering enthusiasm for discovery to visitors of all ages. 

What Are Rocks For?

A Liturgy of Deep Time

For being older than memory or myth.
For giving up a hidden history, layer upon layer.
For recording the silent closing of a vanished sea.
For marking the unconformity of time itself.
 
For the slow-moving magma that cooled miles beneath the surface,
forming the crystalline foundation of continents.
For bearing the stress of mountain building,
and teaching the craton[1] how to endure.
 
Exposed, rocks stand against relentless weather,
yielding only to the slow insistence of wind, rain, and ice,
and then erosion claims the rock rubble.
 
For the igneous birth in the furnace of the rift.
For sedimentary strata laid down in silence.
For the metamorphic weight that pressures and heats
old rock until it forgets what it was.
 
For echoing the violence of volcanic eruptions.
For gold that rose with superheated water and hid itself in veins of ore.
For hosting the silent, reflective fire of the geode’s heart.
 
For keeping secrets deep in solution caverns,
where calcite drips down stalactites slowly over centuries.
For holding the liquid memory of the sun and ancient plants
within the oil locked in shale.
 
For marking where glaciers melted and shed their stony drift.
For erratics—those displaced giant boulders dropped by vanishing ice.
For the frozen silt and sand that holds the weight of the mammoth’s grave.
For the hunter’s chert to make a sharp edge.

For anchoring our small and wandering steps
on a ground that was here before us,
that will be here long after —
indifferent, patient,
still becoming.
 

By Steven Wade Veatch

                        

What rocks are for. Image generated by S. W. Veatch using ChatGPT.

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[1] A craton is an ancient, stable part of the Earth's continental crust that has survived tectonic plate activity and mountain-building processes for billions of years.

Guest Poet Carlee Spears

Tiger

Stealthy, beautiful

Hunting, running, stalking

Striped hunter, apex predator

Carnivore

By Carlee Spears

Note: Carlee's poem is an acrostic poem. She is 14 years old and is the niece of Steven Veatch. 

Guest Poet Carlee Spears

The Serengeti’s Shadow

Protecting the family

Roar echoing through the heat

Elephants give them wide berth

Dark mane flowing

Ambush in the golden grass

Teeth like ivory daggers

Onward the lionesses strike together

Roar the shakes the land

By Carlee Spears

Note: Carlee's poem is an acrostic poem. She is 14 years old and is the niece of Steven Veatch. 

Guest Poet Carlee Spears

 Deer

Skittish proud
Browsing watching standing
Forests thickets antlers watchful
Standing guarding bounding
Father protecting
Majestic

By Carlee Spears

Note: Carlee's poem is the Diamanté form. She is 14 years old and is the niece of Steven Veatch. 

Guest Poet Wyatt Spears

Donkey

Humble, grey

Trudging, straining, enduring

Hooves, rocks, veins, ore

Weighing, gleaming, tempting

Radiant, precious

Gold!

By Wyatt C. Spears

A donkey and a prospector in Cripple Creek, Colorado—the World’s Greatest Gold Camp. Photo courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum. CCDM 808.

Note: Wyatt's poem is the Diamanté form. He is 16 years old and is the nephew of  Steven Veatch. 

Smilodon: A Primal Portrait

Ancient chills cling to the earth as a heavy silence descends

Beneath gnarled branches, the very air thickens with dread

Crouched in the shadows, the Smilodon prepares its assault

Draped in pale gold, it haunts the brush with lethal grace

Eyes, intently focused, fix on an unseen prey

Fangs, curved like ivory daggers, catch the light

Grim power vibrates through the coarse grain of its mane

Hunched shoulders ripple; a tidal wave of force held in check

Imposing in shadow, it carves a dark shape through the green

Jaws, built for the kill, remain locked in a terrifying calm

Killing intent burns deep, the singular spark in its soul

Low to the earth, it creeps forward—a silent, golden threat

Muscles coil like wire, every fiber primed for the attack

Near the tree line it waits, a phantom in its domain

Outlining the distance, it measures the distance of its prey

Powerful forelegs, anchored deep, prepare to launch the strike

Raw sinew stretches as the great cat breaks into a sprint

Saber-teeth, the namesake of terror, are bared to the sky

Thick-necked and brutal, it slams into the side of its mark

Unstoppable momentum carries the hunter through the kill

Vales and frozen forests echo with the sounds of the struggle

Warrior of a lost world, a living embodiment of prehistoric power

Xenacious hunger drives its existence, a constant, primal need

Yielding its spirit to the cycle of life, the titan stands tall

Zenith of its era, it vanishes into the mists of time

Smilodon from 1903. By Charles Robert Knight.
Public Domain.

Selfish Solitude

As I grow older, I reflect on the cost

of selfish actions and what I've lost.

Regret and wisdom entangle in thought—

lessons learned—though dearly bought.

By Steven Wade Veatch

Evening Reflections: Duck Lake

Late in the day the sun sighed.
The lake sparkled as if polished.
The ducks did not notice
a salmon-colored sky as it unfolded—
but a loon did.

As the sun fell from the sky
a fading twilight filled the horizon.
At family gatherings a campfire 
blazed and crackled, 
filling the air with popping 
embers and wisps of smoke.
Dancers arrive in the shadows,
people of the past, 
linking hands, they spin 
to the plaintive fire’s song.
And then they are gone.

Nothing is the same:
the empty swing, 
a broken lawn chair,
the vacant cottage. 

A restless loon flutters, 
its wings beat anxiously,
as it desperately tries to hold 
onto the last remnants 
of the fading day, 
unwilling to succumb 
to the encroaching night.

By Steven Wade Veatch

Between the Storms

There is one secret of the world:
Life is given to us empty,
and during the colors of the day
we fill it with good things 
even if good is hard to find—
because days of angry storms
don’t last, they are calmed 
by longer intervals of quiet
that tame the waves 
    of turbulence 
        along the shores 
            of peace.

A Message Through Time

By Steven Wade Veatch

Mammoths, sabertoothed cats, and cave bears
once ruled this place. When people first came,
they lived here in rock shelters, floored 
with packed dirt, below smoke-blackened ceilings.
On canyon walls—splashed with desert varnish—
they carved and pecked designs, symbols, 
people and animals: A message through time.

This site awakens my senses as my mind 
conjures vivid images of ancient people 
moving, swaying, dancing in the warm glow 
of a crackling campfire while casting shadows 
on the smooth canyon wall. 
They send a message through time.

I think about these ancient people 
who have faded into the dry desert air
and try to understand their
message through time.

One Thursday Afternoon

The Cripple Creek Mining District, Colorado, 1891

The bustling gold camp roared
as the sun began to rise 
and the clinking of picks 
striking rocks filled the air. 

The prospector, 
fueled by determination, 
placed his entire fortune on the line
as his days unfolded 
in an uncertain way.

Anticipation hung heavy, 
mingling with the scent 
of sweat and dust.
He bet it all 
for a chance 
at gold.

Tomorrow would tell the tale,
carrying with it the promise 
of either a hope fulfilled 
or a crushing disappointment
of this prospector’s dreams 
that floated in the air.

—By Steven Wade Veatch

A prospector at work. This AI image was created
by the author with the assistance of MS Designer.

A House Burned Down

Cripple Creek, Colorado

No one lives there. The house is a tomb 
with boarded up windows.
Its tar-paper skin tattered, its shingled roof—
tough as a donkey’s hoof—
has lasted through a tired century.
Inside is the scent of decay and abandonment.

It grew on a hilltop: A new square added, 
with each child born—placed 
like boxes, end-to-end—
in the gold mining camp.

One dry and breezy day a fire started. 
The sharp smell of smoke spread. 
The crackling sound of burning wood 
filled the air as raging orange flames
devoured the house.

Under a burned-black skeleton, 
a claw-foot bathtub sits in ash 
Springs of the davenport twist 
like a frozen tornado. An ornate headboard 
is on the ground, used in one era, 
destroyed in the next.

I stop to think, will my life end 
like this place? Just bits and pieces
in a pile of smoldering cinders?

By Steven Wade Veatch

The Spotted Salamander

In the heart of the dense forest, 
a gentle creek trickles, creating 
a soothing melody. Sunlight filters 
through the thick foliage, casting 
shimmering shadows 
that dance on the ground.

Under the lush canopy, 
where the air carries the earthy 
scent of decaying leaves, moss, 
and damp soil, the spotted salamander 
lives in a tranquil trance 
beneath a blanket of leaf litter.

Adorned with vibrant yellow spots, 
like flickering stars in the night sky, 
the salamander's skin is a tapestry 
of nature's design.

It’s as if the spots are sentinels
of the woodland's spring birth 
and blossoming of new life. 
And when the forest thrives,
so do we, as our lives blend
harmoniously below
the azure skies.

—Steven Wade Veatch

Message in Stone

 By Steven Wade Veatch

Those who are gone once came to this sacred place
of remote canyon walls filled with quiet grace.
They made circles of stones to pray and to fast,
to seek a vision for guidance and join with the past.

Here, seekers waited for their spirit guide to appear
who came in many forms to give strength and end fear.
The seekers knew this place where others once prayed
and had visions of power as long as they stayed.

They left sacred images to last on cosmic red rocks:
Dancers, flute players, lizards, and birds left as pecked pocks.
An eternal art on canyon walls of symbols, visions, and more 
Left behind from those who came here before.

Now the clouds grow dark and are messengers of rain,
they bring a breeze scented with sage over the terrain.
An eagle soars as a guardian spirit above the canyon below
over the messages in stone only the ancients truly know.

A World of Lake and Sky

By Steven Wade Veatch

A crazed wind
    made the afternoon wild.
        A rhythmic    slosh,    slosh,    slosh
of waves crashed on a seawall
edged by rocks carpeted in moss.
Boats bobbed up and down
and rocked with the swells.

I was swept away from the 
troubles of the day
while I watched the swans swim 
into tomorrow.

Image designed by the author using AI.

Dreams in a River of Gold

Art generated by AI.

 

Beside the meandering stream,
a prospector worked his gold pan
while water tumbled over 
smooth granite boulders. 

Here the mountain stream 
grew deeper in its channel 
and formed pools, a likely place 
for gold to settle.

The prospector tirelessly shoveled, 
sifted, screened, and panned—
then picked gold nuggets 
from the black sand in his pan.

Laboring by the stream, he knew why
he left home, saying goodbye—
swapping his life for one on the frontier,
a life of hardship, danger, and brutal work. 

The reason was clear when he bedded down
by a crackling campfire, under a cold 
sky filled with stars and a half-moon. 
As he slept, next to the stream, 
the aspens whispered dreams 
making a strike, taming a new land, 
and building the West.

By Steven Wade Veatch

Garden Park Bone Beds

Near Cañon City, Colorado

Art by AI.

The sun burns in a blue, cloudless sky over bone beds.

Everything is quiet in the heat of Garden Park. A coyote darts by,
following a scent like a moth to light.

Dinosaurs once roamed here in ancient marshlands. 
In Late Jurassic times, a long-necked Camarasaurus and Diplodocus
reached up high in trees for sweet Mesozoic greenery to eat.
A Stegosaurus tried to move, mired in mud; 
a Ceratosaurus looked at her nested eggs and sniffed the humid air.

Fossil hunters and scientists have dug here since 1877, 
among the hills and cliffs along the Fourmile Creek Canyon.
Cope and Marsh1 staged part of their Bone Wars here, 
where their rivalry played out at a heated pace. 

Today, picks strike rock layers and shovels dig down through deep time
into thick Morrison mudstone to where buried bones of dinosaurs rested for millions of years.
Brushes clean, sifters shake, measurements and photos taken, and flies swatted—
a tooth of the ferocious Allosaurus pops up, then fossils of turtles and crocodiles. 
More bones, and then a flurry of discovery, wonder, and excitement. 

While standing on the brink of time, I peer into the past and learn
some secrets of Earth’s ancient times.
As the sun dips down, the day’s digging ends. 
While listening to the twilight, I let the milkweed fall 
from my hand to follow the breeze. 

Watching the evening end and the wind tease the tips of grass,
I think about these fossils and wonder what creatures, 
in a distant future, will look at our fossil remains. 
What will they make of us?

By Steven Wade Veatch
__________________________________________

1 Edward Drinker Cope and Othniel Charles Marsh, were preeminent paleontologists who battled each other for dominance in the world of 19th century paleontology.

Whispers of History

 By Steven Wade Veatch

I find a quiet place in the museum gallery,
away from the footsteps of visitors
to think about the past and the passing of time.
 
The world, as it once existed, is gone,
though traces of it are here.
All I can do now is wonder
and open my imagination to recreate a world
I will never experience but begin to see.
 
I look at the artifacts of people who lived
in those long-ago times and wonder what happened to them.
Everything here is a memento mori for me.
 
Although the people no longer live,
their artifacts still exist.
I feel their past by proxy.
It is my chance to know them.
They have something more to say,
and I am listening.