That natural grass looks so right with that sky, doesn’t it? And then, to make it official, these guys appeared. They walked straight out of 1870 and regarded their European visitor with curiosity.
Sometimes a miracle is the surviving descendants of a genocide, grazing on their homeland, three legs in their own wild world, and one in mine.
Not so far away, I could hear cattle calling to each other. As a rancher’s daughter, this is a sound of peace and security for me. Last night, it only made the scene in front of me more unreal. Cattle seemed at once painted on to the harsh, beautiful, unforgiving landscape of the Great Plains, and so did I.
History may be healing and reversing itself (so might it be). Too late to go back, not to too late for trying.