So you are the one which we have plowed your native grasses under and produced fields of golden grains which rustle in the wind;

And if I turn slightly to face that wind I can hear the echo of a baby bison crying out for It's Mother one last time before their extinction.

And the small drainages scattered amongst the prairie which meanders down to little pools of muddy water where you would gather to feast on the essence of life is now replaced by backyards which resemble miniature golf courses nestled tightly between cathedral-like tract houses thrusting their energies upward toward the heavens.

So you are the old one who has sacrificed so much for my existence.

Gary Horinek