Waiting by the riverbed
Tucked between the canyon walls,
On a path I heard the tread
Of the Indian, and his calls.

But no Indian appeared,
No impression in the soil.
Still, I heard him as he neared
And I started to recoil.

Then his footfalls hurried past
And soon faded with his words
Till the only sounds at last
Were of rustling leaves and birds.

O! How thrilling to believe
That from some forgotten Age
We might possibly retrieve
Words not written on a page.

Who cares how the Indian looked,
Or what shells or quills he wore,
Or how many beans he cooked,
Or if he was rich or poor.

But to hear the things he said,
And the stories that he told,
Learn the music in his head,
Would be treasure more than gold!

We see stars no longer burning,
Why not men from yesteryear
Like the Indian returning?
Will we ever learn to hear?

So, I listen when I can,
More intensely than before,
For the Indian returning,
And the opening of a door.

Copyright (2002) by Arnold Cantor.
All rights reserved.

[January 5, 1996. Lines recalling a visit to
Bandalier National Monument, New Mexico,
and stimulated by a scientific article on the
possibilities for retrieving prehistoric sounds.]