From A Sandhill Somewhere Between North Platte and Callaway, Nebraska
Stiff summer breeze from the southwest,
Always from the southwest this time of year.
Yellow sun suffuses green grass and blue sky racing to horizon,
A race that always ends, must end, in a tie,
For their arrival establishes the finish line,
Establishes the horizon.
The world ends there, at the blue-green line,
The place circumscribed by topography and optics,
A horizon endlessly chasing its tail, a cloudless tornado.
The world begins there, too,
If one works towards a center.
A matter of direction and perspective:
It depends on the point at which one begins thinking.
Am I there, at some point on the horizon of existence?
Or there, at the center, pushing blue and green in concentric circles to a blue-green horizon?
Where does the narrative begin? End?
How many footprints required to comprehend this area?
A question whose answer will forever remain unanswered,
For neither hoof of bison, pad of coyote, sole of moccasin, nor boot of rancher
Has ever, or will ever, disturb what eye surveys.
Only wind and thought move across this land,
And they so deftly as to leave a trace only in the swaying grass.
