I found the following in an old journal, written during a trip to Fort Robinson, Nebraska. It reminded me of why I love writing. Just a few words – but ones that captured my thoughts and feelings.
The birds are always singing. As I gaze out at the bluffs, I can imagine how this rolling pine hill country must have looked a century ago. Today, Elms line Officer’s Row, but in the time of Crazy Horse it was Cottonwoods that provided the cool shade. Now, the leaves seem to have a reflective surface, catching the look of the wind. Not far down the road is the Old Red Cloud Agency where I wanted to walk to see a sky that was blacker than black.
I lost myself in the streaming band of the Milky Way, starting far in the south, flowing through Sagittarius then flinging itself across the broad expanse of the sky as if a stargazer waved her hand and magic poured from her fingertips. Staying in place, perfectly, since the night she placed it there. Like the Indians who once walked this ground, I found myself creating my own constellations and legends – as would anyone who had access to this sky. This perfect sky on this perfect night.
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