I am walking the edge of the prairie,
this bare mournful ground.
The deep roots are all gone.
Houses, barns, wagons, hay rakes,
empty, hushed, bleached by the sun.
This place is a wilderness of silence.
Hemlock, hawthorn tangle in barbed wire.
Thistle chokes the last of the wheatgrass.
Migrant workers, deer have moved south.
Even locusts have gone on to richer ground.
Ruts of the great wagon trains are still visible.
Sometimes washed out graves
reveal headstones faded, worn smooth.
The earth is hard.
Here at the end of my native land
laments echo in my ghost of a skull.
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