Beaver, mole or platypus? It waddles like all three.
I watch the creature scoot along, wild, weird and free.
If she pauses along the way to leave some tiny eggs down
I will call her Platte City Platypus, named for my uncle’s town.
A descension of value bows night scenes,
the purple canopy edges its hoist,
spirits cool Platte River to lose its sheen,
Nebraskans wake to clarion fields voiced.
A loyal guest calls, it's the Sandhill Cranes,
dancing lessons, fields fattening corn orts,
pecking and choosing established campaigns.
Last state, go afoul, -- a date with the courts.
Locals aid their tally, most from afar,
It is nature's clock, all good things must end,
fly north to breed, and brood, and up to par,
A month's here, till next year, that's how the trend.
Awnings grey, triumphant stirs, the tension,
inspiring, crescendo ... the ascension.
My history beckons like the Prairies
Dry towns. Cute and fierce,
Fearless and enslavement,
As the likeness on the Platte,
The Powder, the Niobrara,
the Tongue, the Snake,
The Yellowstone, who, as an American buffalo,
Strange moonlight, explode
With gigantic waves!
My history beckons like a halfway
Body of Missouri River and the Rockies,
Like the Paha-Sapa, the Black Hills of Sioux!
The delighted night of long dance and tales!
My history beckons, oh powerless!
As the magic, mightily sport beyond
The thunderbird
Of the clean range of souls and heats
As the unimaginable size of American bison!
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