My Heart's Home is On the Plains

The sun sets over mountains, but somewhere over the next ridge, she works on.

Over the plains, she meets the horizon, all orange, afire, glowing, and knows exactly when her day is through.

Wind rustles the aspen leaves, and all is silent, except the earth's syncopated breath through the trees with its stop, start, stop rhythm.

Breezes that create waves of wheat on flat land howl, whistle, constantly calling out as if lonesome in the expanse. The soft, low hiss bumps up against vastness, no steep hills to interrupt.

Deer and elk wander into the yard, but here they do not play with the antelope, and I want to see that spot where the sun meets the earth, where grass rolls endlessly on.

My house is in the mountains, but my heart's home is on the plains.