Upon the summer plains a bowl of gold is poured.
The evening setting of a cooling sun having blazed to scorch the day, calmly slips to sleep beyond horizon far.
Stillness descends to silent every trembling cottonwood, the muddy river mighty appears to stop its glassy flow.
Shadows long, coulees dark now cold, songs of coyotes serenade an evening ball announced with yip and howl.
Colors brushed to paint the sky are cast between each cloud, mule deer princes rise from beds to silhouette atop citadels green.
The meadowlark chorus upon the sweet breeze does sing.
A symphony plays, an orchestra of nature’s splendor.
Oh the magic of the plains, bestows a wealth of riches to any spirit poor.