Along the priarielands--
rolling hills   previously
  roamed 
by wild buffalo.

Grouse
sage hens
prairie chickens
pheasant
hungarian partridge

     and now you--

You, in that pretty, flowing
summer dress- walking that
line.. between planted field
and wild prairiegrass

    and not a blade is broken.

Wind-- moving the grass and
nearly-ripened crops like
slow rolling waves 
        out on the sea.

Me.. watching you
      move.. just watching you-- move..
along that line between
beautifully-planted
and natural.. 

   and moving with understanding;

   flowing--
   ever-growing

   knowing.. sweetly knowing
   that there's a glowing
   from what you are showing--  me;

   Not a blade of grass or crop is
   ever harmed by your movements
      instead.. like me, they thrive--

      leaning into you 
      whenever you are near.
             .       .       .

      I am the grass
      the blade
      the crop-- ready for harvest
      the bison
      and the upland bird

      the forever wave hello
      of the tall grass of the prairie.

      And you are as much a
      part of it all
      as you are  of me.

      Like the native grass
      and the native Lakota
         that have  both
      always  known its ways..

      you were always meant to be here.

Africa:
It is a lost place
One thinks of sunny
Blue skies
And then thunderstorms

Of running through
Vast, vast, vast
Open grasslands

Of cooking on a fire,
Of looking out
Over the hills of our
Homeland, homeland, home -
Land, land, land