Poetry
Some stories can’t be contained with prose.
Fès
A balding tom with orange mange shrinks into an earthen pipe dug and laid a thousand years ago today.
Grand Canyons
My worn and dusty shoe dangles
Above a billion years
Three thousand feet of history
Just beneath my sole
Driving West
We left Valentine at 5:30 Sunday morning headed west driving Nebraska Highway 20 which runs along the state’s northern border. Good road, cliffs and buttes and curves in unlikely juxtaposition to movie-set ranch scenes and vastnesses where the prairie meets the horizons all around. It’s a beautiful, beautiful part of our country.
Trail of Tears
A group of Indian nations consisting of the Cherokee, the Chickasaw, the Choctaw, the Muscogee and the Seminole (the “five civilized tribes”) were forcibly relocated from their ancestral homes in the southeastern United States to areas west of the Mississippi. Along the way, thousands died of exposure, disease and starvation. Yesterday I rode parts of the Trail of Tears.