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The prairie is layered
in color.
Strips of green,
still dotted with bright white Snow
on the Mountain,
layered between the burgundy
of taller grasses.
Leaves are yellowing,
falling,
covering the dried grass
below.
Breezy air is a touch cool
in the warmth of sunshine.
The light spectrum
is softer, fainter,
more yellow. Shadows
are longer, more defined.
The sky blue
is outrageously beautiful.
Waning moon shows
this morning there
in that vast blue.

After a morning of Oklahoma earthquake reports,
discussions about water
and political campaigns,
images of children dying of Ebola
in West Africa,
the scheduling of future appointments,
the lengthening the list of tasks yet to be
completed…
I come to the porch.
The big wind chime rings
constantly,
diminuendo,
crescendo
pianissimo,
forte
…a single chime,
then the ringing of all.
Guineas chirp staccato,
a little Junco spits out an
insistent
sentence.
A small wind chime
whispers in high notes.
The northern breeze
rocks a wooden chair
next to me on the porch.
A prairie bird, not far off,
speaks in a monotone
as it flies. An entire Guinea chorus
breaks out. A lone Canada Goose
honks from the sky. Amazingly, Mockingbird
sings what I thought was its spring
repertoire.

I come
to the air,
the sky,
the prairie,
sun and shadow,
nature’s songs.
This music will play on,
always—a balm,
if we hear it.