Tumble weeds roll along the dry arid land. The breeze picks up dust and carries it along an endless open range. There seem to be nothing for miles but the flat expanse. In a place where it looks like nothing could live, the wind bears witness to life and death. The dried bones of a Buffalo lie bleached out by the sun. Partly covered in dirt and grass that has become hung up in the ribs. The empty dry wind howls through them as it sings a sad song. As the sun begins to set, ghost of people long past can be seen dancing at the edge of the horizon. Are they really there, or are those just illusions cast through a crack in time. The wind carries their songs across the open expanse, where only the Prairie Dog and the lone Wolf will hear them. The wind blows on, dry and empty until rain comes and washes out the dust. Then it goes onward filled with clouds and moisture, keeping watch on the flat great plains like some invisible sentinel of time.