The wind blows through the emptiness.
Of this place.
Out here in nowhere.
The climate is harsh.

It.
Bites.
No matter the season.

In the cities.
The wind exhausts itself.
Without the vast brushstrokes of prairie indigo at sunrise.
And sunset.

And the wind is usually.
Tearing through the streets.
Accentuating the cold.
By twenty degrees.
Below zero.

Whether it's wheat or snow.
Something always envelops the horizon.
As I'm lost at the height.
Of the sky.

These cumulus nimbus clouds.
Pepper the sky with slight accents of pillowy soft white.
In the vast blue sky.

Everywhere is silence when the snow blankets the ground.
Cept in summer you can hear the dull humm of insects.
The yipping of coyotes baiting dogs to lunch.
Magpies eating pigeons.

And they say that hard climates make hard people.
At least I'm resilient.