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| Every time I climb the old wooden hill, I pause and take a peek out of the upstairs window - the country's green right now. |
My kids see the ocean waves in the deep, bending hay when the prairie wind let's 'er blow.
I hear their tiny mouths talk about the grass being belly deep on the eastern slopes of the Rockies and wonder will their kids know those same cow trails?
When they chase each other with foxtail, I remember doing the same with my sister.
Walking past the bromegrass, they naturally reach for the kernels and I can feel them in my hand now.
The crunch of the dried out prairie wool, the long grasses mowed down to make a yard, is as common to the kids as it was to me growing up.
I see lawns in the big cities, sod laid uniformly, soft and sprinkler green, but I'll tell you - the grass seems mighty green on this side of the fence.
I hope that the smell of native pasture fills up more than just their noses.
