The Spirit of the South Wind was feisty and strong yesterday on the Prairie. Was there some pent-up anger that she held for the Spirit of the North I wonder, as she accosted him all afternoon with a relentless fury rolling across the flat top of Kansas?
The lush green of this year’s new grass held tightly to the ancient prairie soil, as the faded red and brown remnants of last year’s grass above it was bent and assaulted all day by the fury of the south. The depth and density of the new green pushing up from below takes me by surprise each year, no matter how many springs I watch it happen. While still clothed in the rusty and earthy colored dress that she wears each winter, the prairie is beginning to accessorize herself with the rich spring wardrobe that pushes aside her beautiful winter dress each year at this time.
There were few small birds out above the prairie grass – negotiating movement to the south in the relentless tide of wind was too much work. The Harriers were out though, floating across the sea of wind with mastery, slowly picking their way low across the prairie toward the south in search of unsuspecting prey, or racing toward the north as-if riding a monster wave of wind on a surfboard, only to turn and make another meticulous path across the tops of the grass.
Like the tumbleweeds that fly across the prairie ahead of the wind, our thoughts and emotions are just manifestations of that invisible force that rules the prairie I suppose. There is a power that moves us that is beyond our ability to see. Try and stand too firmly, and the prairie wind will break us. Learn to bend with the wind, and we will survive. Learn to use the wind as the ocean of our paradise, and like the Harrier, we will prosper.
