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it was revealed to me alone with the trees

America, Mound Builder, Corn Planter, Buffalo Hunter, River Trader; Sail Maker, Road Cutter, Rail Layer, Factory Hand, Store Clerk, Handler of Freight: They tell me you are young and I believe them, for I have seen your fresh subdivisions climbing over cornfields and your glass towers shining in the sun. And they tell me you are old and I answer: Yes, it is true I have stood in a plowed field after frost and held a stone older than empires in my hand. And they tell me you are forgetful and my reply is: On creek banks after rain, in road cuts, behind shopping centers and courthouse squares, I have seen the things you left behind and the things you built over them. And they tell me you are restless and I answer: On your rivers and highways and rail lines I have watched generation after generation pack up, move on, start over, and call it a beginning. And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this rough republic and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another land carrying so many worlds on its back. Come and show me another land where a farmer can strike ten thousand years with the blade of his plow, wipe it on his pants, drop it in his pocket, and go back to work before lunch. Come and show me another land where fireworks burst over burial grounds and nobody thinks twice about it. Flinging bridges across rivers, Driving rails through hills, Rolling blacktop over buffalo trace and wagon road, Raising warehouses where factories stood, Here is a tall rough country set vivid against the centuries; Fierce as a river in flood, Stubborn as a sycamore gripping a cut bank, Digging, Planting, Trading, Marching, Paving, Selling, Building, burning, abandoning, building again. The corn comes up where the village stood. The courthouse clock rings over buried fires. The Dollar General opens by the old road. The factory whistle dies and the warehouse lights come on. The road crew lays fresh blacktop and the rain shines on it. The creek keeps cutting at the bank. The frost keeps working at the dark earth. A farmer bends down, picks up a point, turns it between finger and thumb, wonders a minute, drops it in his pocket and goes back to work. The freight train comes hammering through. The combine comes growling through. The school bus comes rocking through. The jet crosses high overhead. And the old ground lies under them all, taking the weight, taking the noise, taking the years. Bragging and laughing that under its fields are the black rings of hunters’ fires, Under its towns the ashes of council houses, Under its parking lots the footprints of traders, Under its runways and warehouses and loading docks the camps and villages of another age, Laughing! Laughing with river mud on its hands, Laughing with flint chips and railroad spikes in its pockets, Laughing with concrete dust on its mouth and fireworks in its eyes, Laughing while the courthouse bell rings and the creek cuts deeper, Laughing while the corn grows over old fires and the freight rolls past in the dark, Bragging and laughing that the shovel always finds something, Laughing! Laughing the stormy, restless, working, wrecking, building, breaking, rebuilding laughter of America.