Each wagon cradled another handful of dreams
through mud, fear and the endless seas of dusty buffalo.
They followed the ruts of those that had,
and the past graves that hoped
to find their way to Oregon.
Legions of fat beaver, mighty elk
and even the land bid them, "Come."
Offering it's timber, salmon and furs;
all wild and good.
Here, to what was not yet America
but home to others;
the travelers from the north lands long ago.
Here, to the mild green valleys of plenty,
home of the mighty flowing Wimahl,
provider for the many.
Here, to the last long shore before the far-setting sun,
where faded days bow their head
in songs of welcome for the rising moon.
Gathered in the final valley,
the seekers finally revel in the face of plenty.
All here have been lost, then found the way.
Now is when we live again
and cry out,