To the East, the mountains lose their teeth to rolling hills and grassy prairie. The smell of sweetgrass and manure wrestle through the tumble weed winds, swift and warm. There is a calm here in the big sky horizons, where reluctant life forges ahead through the harsh winters and dry summers. The lonely sacredness of dreams tied up in old stories that still live in Post Office conversations. I admire the Stoic vastness of the Prairie, stretched as far as the eye can see. I visit when I can, and get lost in the hushed whispers of time.