The year was eighteen seventy-eight
Beneath a ruthless, burning sky
Dry Creek slept, remote and sedate
Where dust danced wild and secrets lie

The air was thick with ghostly tales
Wooden homes and slow-worn feet
A silent sheriff on dusty trails
Where time itself forgot to beat

But fate, unseen with playful hand
Brought to the path a gleaming surprise
A box unmarked, from no known land
Dark and polished, strange to the eyes

In Cole’s rough grip, the weight of a riddle
Light to the touch, yet heavy with dread
A screen awoke, soft lights did twiddle
And visions of wonders began to spread

Towers immense, with steel and glass
Horseless carriages, voices unknown
Old Jed called it devilish mass
While Rosetta prayed in her garden, alone

The preacher spoke with steady tone
"Fear clouds reason, let’s not condemn
God’s world is vast, and the unknown
Might be a test sent straight from Him"

Young Tim, wide-eyed, both brave and sly
Pressed each button with eager delight
Called it magic, future nearby
A puzzle from time, glowing so bright

Days passed on, and doubt took root
Burn it! Bury it! Throw it away!"
But Cole stood firm in quiet pursuit:
"Let’s wait… it might have more to say."

Then came the night, no moon in the air
A sandstorm roared with fury and spite
The box flared bright, then vanished right there
Gone in the dust… swallowed by night.

Now in Dry Creek, the story remains
Told near the fire, with whiskey in hand
Of the box that showed futuristic refrains
And left behind more questions than planned

And when folks recall that strange device
With screens and keys, with circuits thin
They whisper soft, with awe and advice:
"It was just a laptop… where it came from? No one knows… not then, not now… and maybe never again."