Yellow hay, yet to be wrapped in round bales, sways in the choking, hot August wind. The prairie grass
is taller than I, due to February’s heavy snow. Only the meadowlarks perched in the snow-crested
cottonwoods and thrumming cicadas in the stagnant ditchwater break the silence. Not a puffy cloud, not
even wispy storm shadows brewing far beyond the horizon, mars the bright azure sky. Despite all
the grueling labor I spent here—sweat condensation in my elk-skin gloves, my arms and ears crisping
under the sun—I will miss it all: the silence that cooed me, the sun that swaddled me, and the wind
that rocked me.

This place. Will never leave me.