Warm, soft
The sunlight drops from the leaves
Onto my dry, rough hands.
Summer grass brushes lightly,
Fingers across my sunburned face,
Gently coaxing me, calling me
From a still, waking sleep.
The yellow dandelions nod
Their crowned heads awake.
The warm, soft breeze whispers
Slow songs without words
Drifting melodies, clouds of notes
Singing through the leaves overhead.
Time has no meaning, no substance
On the pastures of High Lonesome
Only a presence of endless peace.
Gentle breezes; a sun-baked breath
Still, grazing shapes on the horizon
Their presence quiets all noise.
Locusts sing to another golden day while
Giant ants return seeds to a decaying tree.
I awake in an old saddle full of dreams
A simple and magnificent sight
A sea of bowing grass and waving leaves.
It makes all the difference, the Indian cries,
When I am still and silent upon the Plains.
The difference was always within me.