The High Plains

Pale straws bend as unseen
Forces sweep
Across the nearly featureless
Landscape
That stretches for miles
Unending,
Broken occasionally by
Deep green
Sprays of needles and
Dried stalk
Of the yucca known as
Bear grass.

I lean slightly into
The invisible
Never-ending force of
The wind,
That restless, timeless
Bringer
Of storms and drought
And change
Upon this landscape
Swept flat
By Eons of scouring
Movement.

I am covered by a sense of
Peace
When a slight hint of dust
Tickles
My nostrils as I gaze
Across
The seemingly forever
Plains.
It is the serenity of being
Home.