Probability Does Not Exist

In its own time, an event

Is always very modern.
The shining truck startles me,
Pulling up alongside me
On the gravel, grinning girl
In the front seat peering down.
Someone hops out of the back

And runs over to the plaque,
Reading it quickly, arms crossed,
By my shoulder, and then sprints
In return, clearly quite pleased.
"It says the architect was
A Mormon settler from Maine,
A pioneer!" The truck leaves.