none of you are strong or independent how many do you rely on for your food? your gas? electric, and the roof overhead? this is a fixed system a racetrack where all the horses are doped all i can say is, stop running
where is the end everyone has their own everything is included flowing waters will find their end and last droplet winged beasts will land one last time clouds in the heavens will rain no more where is the end fish in all waters will complete their last swim insects crawling and buzzing about will settle in at last wheat, corn, and all plants can't take the lack of liquid mountain peaks, rolling hills, great vast plains hear nothing where is the end is there an end waters may never find that last drop beasts of the air may never land rain will always be fish swimming in the waters will be there all plants will drink in the moisture of the land mountain peaks, rolling hills, great vast plains will be listening we can stop the end we ALL can stop the end...
He is walking slowly where step by step measure by measure in the lush meadow he plays a dulcet meandering air inviting me to join him there unbound by dark and foreboding forces of the viral pervasive present.
I join him and we fly to the open plain recently refreshed by rain Oklahoma and its green fields where the spirits of Native peoples reside and in soft spring breezes glide and remember their ancestors’ names and the simple childhood games they played kicking up dust of earth in earshot of their mothers who gave birth to those precious souls and bodies brown made of love and Red River and ground.
The flute’s tune again catches me in its lively streaming strain and pulls me up to airy heights to join the dance of darkness and light in spirit realms where beauty and reality tango together in peace.
I bow to spiritual writer and mystic Richard Rohr and Kiowa, Pulitzer Prize winning author, painter and poet N. Scott Momaday who grew up in Oklahoma and once said “Realism is not what it’s cracked up to be.”
My Dakota plains Broken by clusters of trees That surround farms Connected by black thin lines Draped between poles That follow roads
Or a shortcut across fields On giant steel mannequins Standing watch over Corn, beans, sunflower Or cows or horses Or sheep
On My Dakota prairie With rich black dirt That feed crops And sustain our towns Our clusters of life Our family and self.
While South Dakota is so much more than agriculture, our ancestry that came here generations ago dug their roots in deep and nurtured this place in our hearts. It is a beautiful place... sometimes harsh, but a glorious place to take in.
The weavers of the plains are tireless workers poor but honest, always trusting the generosity of an unlocked door to let in a husband working nights at the print and design shop, finishing that last small sign full of eclairs glazed with the most deliciously appealing serif font for the new French bakery off of main and twenty-third
or the plumber who heard about that slow running toilet on the second floor who leaves the bill neatly near the vanity knowing the check will come with the Wednesday amble and update chat
or the mechanic who can be trusted with the keys and a blank check on the front seat of that old blue Ford that is leaking green.
The weaver mother with seven children, threads pieces for their school newspaper, spins fine clear aqua yarn showing other kids how to swim, substitute teaches so that she can bind their minds into a chalkboard panel of good knowledge, even drives the school bus if that is what the thread requires to be strong.
The weaver farmer sees the Nebraska soil is thready, dry, hard to till, harder to water, that crops can’t be harvested without the abundant help of others.
In it they see a tapestry, the people it’s colors everything needing a tight loom for it to work, survive and thrive and bind forever together.
So, they are intentionally local knowing machine yarn eventually unravels, that good thread can’t be found online, and that the best panels in the tapestry are the ones that come from common life.
There’s a horse on a field, grazing upon grass as the wind plays its favorite tune, a mountain song, trickling down upon the eastern flat plains of Colorado. Her head hung low in soft serenity, this black mare stares upwards towards a blue purple red sky. She asks not why or what, but is simply aware of the natural. Enjoying her meal, this black mare alone on her favorite field, concealed by a white fence, one more day coming to an end, turns to her stable, ready to return. The sky turns a dark blue. A September shiver rattles her old craggy bones, but the stable shelters her from further pain. Time to rest, and tomorrow all the same.