Here in the home of dryland wheat, 

buffalo berry, and prickly pear,

the Sharptail sit in amongst the 

sage and I watch as a determined dog 

works to pin them down.  Sandhills dot 

a living sky, and two Pronghorn go under 

the bottom wire of a four strand fence.

The wind still whispers through the 

weathered wood of all that’s been left 

behind and as I walk the stubble a covey 

of Huns rise from a chokecherry thicket 

on the other side of the coulee. 

They say if you look out over this landscape

“all you’ll see is the back of your own head”,

a poor prescription for any man already 

prone to too much internal dialogue. 

But blessed are those with 

something to look into 

rather than at.