We’re leaving Nebraska with our minds filled with the thoughtful conversations we’ve had with folks in York County about Keystone XL, far from the partisan rhetoric that’s dominated the national discussion. What comes through in every conversation I’ve had is the deep, deep connection people here feel to their land.
Listen for our story next week on All Things Considered. Meantime, here’s one of my favorite poems from Nebraska poet (and former US poet laureate) Ted Kooser. I love the sense of place in these lines:
So This Is Nebraska BY TED KOOSER
The gravel road rides with a slow gallop over the fields, the telephone lines streaming behind, its billow of dust full of the sparks of redwing blackbirds.
On either side, those dear old ladies, the loosening barns, their little windows dulled by cataracts of hay and cobwebs hide broken tractors under their skirts.
So this is Nebraska. A Sunday afternoon; July. Driving along with your hand out squeezing the air, a meadowlark waiting on every post.
Behind a shelterbelt of cedars, top-deep in hollyhocks, pollen and bees, a pickup kicks its fenders off and settles back to read the clouds.
You feel like that; you feel like letting your tires go flat, like letting the mice build a nest in your muffler, like being no more than a truck in the weeds,
clucking with chickens or sticky with honey or holding a skinny old man in your lap while he watches the road, waiting for someone to wave to. You feel like
waving. You feel like stopping the car and dancing around on the road. You wave instead and leave your hand out gliding larklike over the wheat, over the houses.
