The shadow of the photographer reaches over
almost to the wee tyke in a sombrero who listens
to the music these horny hardrock miners are making
with their old time instruments up here
in the lonely mountains: miners, and a few loggers,
and Ed Dolch who sold them groceries out of the cabin
that is behind them now, its unpeeled bark siding an answer
to the late afternoon sun. This is the nineteenth century,
they ail wear hats and suits—the cornet player
even wears a derby, tipped so the sun is in his eyes
as he stands at an angle to the others, his vanity or pride
still visible though the music has receded that gave it
a voice you could hear—only their boots
or rough shoes give away their occupation
and their location, in that more formal time.