RIVER LORE

Have you ever sat in an old fishing boat
Watching the sun go down,
The cool, greenish waters reflecting light
From nearby Natchitoches town.
Mister Thompson's cows coming down to drink,
The sky painting colors from mauve to vivid pink,
Little Billy Baxter trying to catch old "slick",
Fishing with a pole made from a stick.
Sitting on the bank in ragged jeans,
Threading his hook with dried butterbeans.
The tree frogs, the bullfrogs, and the gators, too,
Croak in baritone, just for you.
The old Cane River, stepchild of the Red,
Cradles many a secret in a shallow bed.
Once the waterway for steamboats proud!
Now the showplace for a Christmas crowd!
Plantations lined the muddy banks,
Offered fine docks with hand-hewed planks.
Children attended school on riverboats,
Picked cotton in hand-made coats.
A time and era of forgotten peace,
Flown away like fall's geese.
Now little Billy Baxter is headed home,
'Jumping a 'stride a strawberry roan,
Riding across the open field,
Running full gallop up Weaver's Hill.
His image fades as the sun goes down,
That time of day, all dusty and brown.
Many people have seen the sight,
And followed the image into the night.
This is a secret the Cane River holds,
None know the truth, and none dare
To question their sight or sanity
About a child who died
In 1893

Reggie Anne Walker-Wyatt, c. 1998