My Valley
Tucked away in the north-central part of the state, about ten miles or so from where the clear and slow-moving water of the Grand River mixes with the quickly rolling mud of the Missouri River. Was my isolated valley. A tiny insignificant place dotted with small farms and rolling pastureland of bluestem, switch, and Indian grass. Somewhere just off the beaten path and a little left of “where the hell am I anyway”. From high up in the hills where the Crabapple and Cottonwood creeks merge just outside Log Cabin Station, there is a small creek that begins to snake its way south for thirty miles or so along the northern boundary of that rich Sugar Maple bottom land. For seventy centuries the Sioux Indians fished, hunted, and thrived there. They were the first to speak its name. The abundance of wildlife in the area led them to believe that that small waterway was the ‘River of the Great Spirit’, and they called it…Wakenda.
Life moves in circles,
Like the oceans ebb and flow,
There are no shortcuts.
I could hear in my head their thousand shrill cries
While their homes burn, their throats slit,
Unpleasant thoughts of the bloods of the innocent
Bring sadness and tears to my eyes!
What has happened to the human soul
That run through men of this beloved country;
It grieves my heart so much to think
Of these man's inhumanity to man!
From Northeast through North Central,
That once peaceful green Plateau
With it's beautiful weather and happy people
Each enjoying the air they breathe.
Their pain I cannot equate or measure
Nor can I fathom the devil that made
The marauder bands kill for pleasure;
To think that these disasters are man made!
If this deaths and shedding of innocent blood
Are nature's punishment as some believe,
For fostering 'One Nigeria' home and abroad,
Then we have plenty reasons to grieve!
Best it is then
To let each man to his tent,
Let them spread out their wings
Fly if they must, and feel the breezy air;
A house divided against itself never grows!