I tread these hills in silent reverence, feeling out of place.
Blades of grass are being twisted
By invisible playing fingers that also tug my hair loose.
I am filled with awareness, knowing that these green knobs
Which hail the start of the great west prairie
Once belonged not to Mr. Shultz,
Or the Dwyers neither before him, nor to any white man,
But were free.
Home to bountiful flora and fauna
Which prospered in the sweeping grasses and groves of sturdy burr oak.
I kneel down to the circle of stones,
Their sacred purpose forgotten by most,
Touching the granite, warmed by the sun's golden kiss.
In a different time, prayers were sent up from this space.
Figures whirling, keening and dancing to the rhythmic thumping of drums.
If I listen carefully,
They may still echo up here yet, in the wind.
And I, reminded of the past in turn,
Am awed by this place,
Feeling closer to God.