Maybe Whitman, Cather, and Welch knew. Having eyes, perhaps they saw the plains not so much as clay, loam, loess but more as metaphor. Yet I can't blame those who hurry past I too have felt the sting of blizzard, hail, tornado uncertainty that I could wait for meadowlark or rainbow
Then only in moments cradled in silence stronger than storm could I see how some could stay year after year facing those winds and still reap gladness
I know now that it took more than time to teach them how rough places are made plain and why the plains are so great.