midwestern dreams


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open. sky, grassland, a pond, the dusty trail beneath your feet. nobody’s land; at least, it feels like nobody’s land. maybe the birds. they fly around, their flittering like visiting neighbors. but maybe not. all you see is opened before you like a living picture-book, 360 degrees.

but this is the outback…out back of. it is not out back of your back yard, nor out back of the next town over. no, it is out back of nowhere. a nowhere that time has let fallen into weedy growth, and even this path that you stare at beneath you, bares tracks unlike your own, as it dissolves into sandy soil in the wind…and loses width to the inching ground cover.

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and then, as suddenly as it began, you stand at the end of divided tracks, atop of rise, where tree, bush, and grassland have mingled to eat away the remnants of a once busy road. it is summertime, and you are faced with a plethora of greens, a wall in the picture-book fabric.

there is nothing to do but turn around. to follow your old prints back to the car, to submit to the season.

you shall return. if you can. when the snow flies and the trail opens to a sky and field more brown and beige than green, when even a wall of wildflowers cannot stop you from entering an undiscovered remnant of what once was a way…


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