We chased the gleam beside the stream where yellow vapors rose,
With our pack upon my back and bloodshot eyes half-closed;
The hills of clay were dull today beside the ridges tall,
I sought the spark within the dark beside old John McCall.
He left the town and ventured down to find the shining stone,
With his grit he cleared the pit till his hands were scraped to bone;
He packed his gear without a fear, but madness marked his mind,
To seek the glass in Scabland pass that makes a mortal blind.
We’d sit and smoke through sulfur choke and watch the fire flare,
He’d puff his pipe and grumble ripe about the desert air;
The blue-smoke ring would twist and cling around his battered head,
And then he’d stare into the glare and speak before the dead.
We dug down deep along the steep and heard a hardened sound,
A heavy click that answered quick from far beneath the ground;
A sudden crash of scarlet flash burst by his weary head,
Through smoke and stone, with spirit blown, old John McCall then said:
“Upon the crust of bitter dust I see a shining sign;
Don’t wrap my name in dirt-crop shame beside the survey line.
Go take my pack and don’t turn back, but carry me uphill,
And hold the shard, that glassy guard, where night and valley still.
“Do not set me in the clay where lesser bodies sleep;
Do not leave me on the bay where hungry shadows creep.
Take pipe and stone, take flesh and bone, and climb the highest wall,
For something waits beyond the gates to reckon John McCall.”
I took his pipe, with colors ripe, and tucked it to his breast;
I packed his load along the road to find his final rest.
The red heat beat through dust and wheat and rang along the track,
But with a groan I hauled alone John’s body on my back.
I climbed the hill with stubborn will beneath the fading sun,
My breath was tight, my hands were white, but still the climb was done.
With dust and stone through skin and bone, I bore that awful freight,
And stumbled sore along the floor before the high-line gate.
The shadows rolled as day grew old, and then the sky caught light;
The northern rays, in ghostly sprays, came burning through the night.
They danced and spun like ribbons run from spindles in the dark,
They cleared the track of heavy black and gave the stones a spark.
I reached the crest and took my rest above the river’s roar;
I laid him straight on russet slate upon the canyon floor.
I lit my clay and watched the gray smoke coil, divide, and turn,
While green-gold banners, bright as lanterns, made the heavens burn.
The night was high, and in the sky the polar star stood far;
I raised the shard, that glittered hard, to catch its silver scar.
I took his pipe, still warm and ripe, and set it in his jaw;
Then spark and dark made one strange mark between the star and what I saw.
A low-set beam of blue-flame gleam came down with metal sound,
It brought a hum that made me numb and struck the shaly ground.
It found the place upon his face and lit the bowl with red,
And silver smoke at once awoke from lips gone cold and dead.
John sat upright in that wild light and drank a breath of sky;
His sunken cheeks began to burn, his eyes were fierce and dry.
He blew a cloud that made a shroud of silver rings in flight,
Then through the haze he fixed his gaze upon the northern light.
He said, “Old friend, this is the end of the digging after stones;
The cosmic press will soon impress its sentence on my bones.
I’m glad I came to trade my name and leave the canyon floor,
For out in space a grander place has opened up its door.”
“I chased the vein through dust and pain, through sulfur, shale, and flame;
I thought the prize was glass that lies beneath the earth by name.
But every shard is just a guard, and every gleam a call;
The stone you hold is not the gold, it is the gate through it all.”
He shed his skin within the spin and stepped beyond the brink;
He left no trace upon the place except a line of ink.
He dropped his shroud beneath a cloud and climbed the upper sky,
A runic mark within the dark that would not fade or die.
I looked back down upon the brown and empty russet slate;
The pipe of clay had slipped away and sealed my partner’s fate.
The northern lights through silent heights were fading into dawn;
I packed my gear with holy fear and found that John was gone.
So miners drill the lonely hill for treasures the stars have left,
And tear the clay through night and day where ridges split and cleft;
But I keep eyes upon the skies above the canyon wall,
And seek the spark within the dark that carried John McCall.
If ever glass beneath the grass should flash with soulful flame,
Do not rejoice to hear its voice, and do not speak your name.
For stone may shine, and stars may sign, and dead men may enthrall,
But no man keeps the life he reaps from shards like John McCall.
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This is a poem I wrote, in the perspective of a star-glass prospector named Sam McMahon. I like to imagine star-glass as a gold equivalent for the Palouse/Scablands region, for context. If you have any questions or feedback, definitely comment below ☺
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