A Story of Wind and Birds
There are paths below the prairie grass you can no longer see. Sunsets that light them with a gentle prairie breeze. Birds that sit upon a stalk of golden grass and sing. The Nebraska Sandhills are a mystery few have ever seen. Miles and miles of barb wire and fence posts, crooked now. Worn with sun and winters run that twists the posts to new shapes. Hills dotted with cattle and rusty windmills here and there. You look and think that this world is bare without a tree to be seen. Surely no human has ever lived here, but then you'd miss the stories that all but disappear. Stories that only the wind has seen whispered on the lives that have disappeared. Each pasture once held a family now the pastures carry the names of the families that were and are no more. I stand on these trails and remember... An old cowboy, his hat of straw clutched between his hands. Gnarled hands, wrinkled eyes that have faded blue. White stubble chin and a gentle smile that tells of tales unto