This was his land. The land his father had fought and died for. The land where Cherokee and buffalo once ran wild, free as the high blue sky that hung above the prairies. The land that had been stained with the blood of Yankee and Rebel soldiers, watered by the tears of joys and sorrows. The land where he’d been born and where he’d die. This was wild land, untamed with a wild, savage beauty. Land where the distant echoes of voices past lie buried within the rich, black soil. Land with infinite potential, that held the keys to his past and future beneath the sun-bleached and wind-beaten prairie grasses. Land where his memories and dreams collided to create that one priceless place called home. Land where freedom rolled on across the plains, infinite like the sky. All the powers of man and earth could try to take it from him, but he’d fight for this land to his dying breath. He’d come too far to lose it now. No drought would take away his land. He’d water it with his blood, sweat, and tears if he had to. This was raw land, wild and majestic. This was his land. It was his, he screamed up at the scorching sun…and he prayed to God for rain.
Written for Thursday 360