KEKIONGA
What we know as the Saint Mary’s River was the Kekionga to the Miami Indians who lived in this area one hundred years ago.
KEKIONGA
Born on the banks of the old Kekionga,
That’s the Indian word for muddy water.
A lazy, leafing trickle when the storms are done,
But a raging, roaring torrent when the spring rains come.
She flows through Indiana where the long corn grows.
Say, you’ll think you’re in a forest when you get between the rows
Ears hanging down and sticking out way up above your head.
Guess that’s where they get the notion that we are all corn fed.
River bottoms lush with clover, hogs and cattle fat and sleek,
Pilgrims passing stop and linger, know they found what they did seek.
Me, I roamed the country over looking for the Promised Land.
Didn’t know before I started, I could touch it with my hand.
Turned my back on Heaven’s garden, chasing rainbows, pots of gold.
Wouldn’t heed old rivers warning, drifted home when I got old.
Memories haunt me here beside her, ’bout those boyhood summer nights
Where we’d catch a mess of bullheads by the campfires’ flickering light.
Then perhaps we’d roast a chicken that some fellow brought along.
Never thought to call it stealing, didn’t aim to do no wrong.
Sure, we pilfered roasting corn, apples, melons, chickens too.
Makes you feel sorta guilty ’bout the things we used to do.
Good old neighbors gone to glory, hope to meet them over there.
Want to stop and tell my story, know they’ll say that were all square.
Lazy river still aflowing down between her muddy banks,
Water gurgling sorta knowing, winking “bout our boyhood pranks.
Old muddy river, was a pleasure to be a kid along your shore.
Rainbow ended where it started. I won’t be roaming anymore.
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