The Rustle of Tall Grass: The Language of the Prairie’s Winds

The West wasn’t won by luck—it was carved by determination and hard work.

winds do whisper through the tall grass,

With secrets old as the stones they pass.

In twilight™s hush, the prairie stirs,

A dance of life, where silence blurts.

Each blade a voice, its tale unfurls,

Of drifting dust and wildflower swirls.

The cattle low, their echo strong,

As in the dusk, the nightbirds throng.

Beneath the vast and starlit dome,

A cowboy rides, his heart a home.

He feels the pulse of earth and air,

A language shared, a storied flair.

As dawn breaks forth on painted skies,

The rustle calls, where freedom lies.

With every breath, on wild winds cast,

He finds his path, through futures vast.