How so easy it is
             to sit at your headwaters
             to trip back through time
             to sense your rambling moods
             to visit with your many guests.
         You've always been such a gracious host.

         It hasn't been so many years back
            that to visit your spacious area
            we had to hike through the woods.
         Camping out back, in the sticks,
                 by your cooling waters;
         Nude swimming without care of intruders,
              except those of like mind and moods.

         The sun to warm us during the day,
             a blazing campfire by night.
         Under your crystal, starry ceiling
         Tall tales we tell into the darkness.

         Farther back into your memory, I sense,
                 generations of Cherokee you've hosted,
                 off and on.
         Such considerate guests they were,
              a place to eat and sleep
              was all that they asked of you;
         And the opportunity to experience your existence.

         How many young bucks and Indian maidens
         Have learned the secrets of love and life
         Beside your running waters,
         Upon your weather worn rocks?
         A thousand generations, or more?

         I can sense that there have been
           spans of silence;
         Only the flow of water and time
              the visits of woodsey creatures and birds.
         Did you treasure those periods
             reflecting on the continuity
             of your own ancient past?
         Or do you equally treasure man's presence,
            especially those who respect
            your beauty and history?

         Never-the-less you would be rediscovered
         Over and over again
         By some future generation
         That may have begun
         By your waters and on your rocks.


         Below the foot waters,
         Where the waters flow
               on to other unknown places,
         I've wandered.

         Love and life fills the air,
              radiates from the ground and trees.
         Happy days of the fifties, I sense;
         Recovery period of the seventies too.
         The sixties seem to have no place here.

         Such an exhilarating experience
              to wander through those rooms,
              among the feel and flow of life itself.
         You are a gracious host!

         My mind runs wild with wonderment
         At the happenings within those places and times.
         But those were secret moments for others,
         I have no right to intrude into these climes.

         So much with the past,
         What future is there for you?
         Such is man's invasions
              to put a road so near,
              to remove part of your rarity and uniqueness.
         But if not for such, many others and I
             would have traveled through this life
             without ever experiencing your existence.

         Even so we are the temporary ones,
              guests in your house,
              like all the others before.
         The road will fade away into your memory
             and so will we,
             like all the others before.

         Perhaps at some future time
         Indians and others will again
         Rediscover your existence.
         And later young ones will hike in
         To find your tranquility
         And experience the feel and flow of life
         Within your secret rooms.