There’s a gap in the landscape that’s a hollowed vein.  The many wilds of this, the people, the prairie—there isn’t anything I could have constructed that was more perfect.  Too many times people can’t see the forest for the trees.  They’re living a world where the wind kisses their face in a soft breeze and they feel windburn.  They’re living in a world where the grass underneath their feet cushions their fall and all they feel are weeds and chiggers.  They’re living in a world where the blue sky scatters the air in all wonderful shades of periwinkle and denim, but all they can do is search for shade.

This land is rush. The people who came here, came here for the wild.  It was Indian Territory with little law and lots of men with dreams and the women, who were stubborn enough to have them too or, to follow them.  Looking west, toward the mountains, desert, and the great ocean, the prairie seems like an odd place to stop and call home.  The winters were warmer than to the north or back east, and the vast endless meadows were God-made for grazing cattle.

But then there’s the harsh that’s the rains, and the droughts, and the storms, and the fires, and the hard Earth of tilling and planting and sod houses.  This land bred survivors—their descendants still linger today; through will or skill they are the ones who are able to see the trees in the forest—to see the grass in the meadow, and, who recognize the weeds as wildflowers scattering color across the green and brown scape.

This place is, and always has been, the beginning of adventure and dreams; to greater things, to greater places, to bigger goals, to the wide, vast open of what is to come…

…in the blue and denim glimmering skyline.



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