Beautiful or strong

or filled with shadows long;

fragrant or wild,

young like a child;

aged or wise

all truth and no lies.

She just is.

 

The prairie.

Sometimes
when life runs through you
with the pace of a heavy wind,

the goldenrod and cattails ignite for just long enough
and a horse stands in front of you unmoving beneath the cottonwood tree,
a young steer at her feet

kicking at her fetlocks
and staring into the dying sun,

reminding you to stop and see.

 

At first it was the ocean I loved

then the mountains then the ocean and the mountains again

but now I see it will always be the prairie.

If I could carve out a little hut camouflaged in a verdant bluff I would

spend my days turning circles in the long, gilded grass with the sun watching

the clouds narrate each breath I would

let the wind decide when it’s time to retreat before the prairie toads and pointed

frogs hop about under the brilliant reflection of the moon whispering the word

eternal

let the snakes unbothered, carve out their ssssssssses of gold and the

jackrabbits leap for joy over their communal unanimity I would

let the coyotes yip yip yip me into a bottomless slumber of cool air and simple

dreams

where bison rise to a bluff under the darkened veil of an afternoon storm and

mustang wildly toss their obdurate heads bucking and cantering

into this earthy outer-space more cosmic and unscathed than what people sail

or climb.