Falling Rock

Riding through the mountains
When I was but a small child,
Watching all the sites go by,
My eyes would become beguiled.

I loved the tall green forest,
The dark tunnels we rode through,
The Smokey Mountain skies of mist
The sparkling streams of crystal blue.

But one sign always bothered me,
Watch Out For Falling Rock it read.
So, I vigilantly stayed alert
and quite often ducked my head.

My dad would notice me looking up,
Not in awe of wonders, but with some fear.
Sensing that something was not quite right,
I asked him if rocks were falling near.

I knew that this partly was Cherokee land
And my father used this knowledge well.
Instead of enforcing my fear of landslides,
He told me a little tale.

Of how a young, little Cherokee boy
Grew lost while taking a walk.
Signs were put up to help find him,
And his name was Falling Rock.

I spent several years on vacation
Looking out my window to find,
That lost little Cherokee boy,
Instead of having lost some peace of mind.

And though I was saddened, I was hopeful.
To find him was my occupation,
In an age with very little to do in a car,
In a long journey across the Nation.

Of course, I never found him.
But I fondly remember the tale,
Of how a father looking in the back
Wouldn’t let his daughter’s fears prevail.