Crossing the Prairie

On the beltway around Kansas City, the silhouette of a Sioux Indian and his pony stood in the median. I was startled to see them, even in oxidized iron. Three bison followed and then a covered wagon and pioneer family. Three more bison. The nod to history struck me instead as a memorial for what once was.

Traffic eased more quickly than I’d hoped and I sped south and west on Rte 50, which joined I-35 for nearly 100 miles. It left the interstate at Emporia and I followed. I stopped for gas across from the Tyson plant a hulking complex of towers and low warehouses. Its gleaming metal and white paint stood in sharp contrast to the surrounding town. About twenty miles west of Emporia, I turned north on Rte 177 toward the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve.

The grassland, already mid-thigh high was studded with life and movement. Butterflies and bees visited a dozen different species of wildflower nestled among the grasses. Some of these grew more rapidly than the surrounding prairie and served as perches from which Dicksissel, Grasshopper Sparrow and Meadowlarks proclaimed their small territories. Overhead, Nighthawks carved buoyant circles in the sky. The sky itself, stretching for miles and miles was a mottled grey that gave full vibrance to the greens, purples and oranges below.

I crested a low rise followed the ridge to next pasture. Low brown shapes rose form the grass ahead, and as I rounded a bend in the trail they revealed themselves as bison. They eyed me cautiously; a calf struggled to its feet and was nuzzled by its mother. Three lay in the grass chewing not bothering to turn at my approach. Then the leader dropped his head to browse. This was what the iron on the beltway memorialized; yet here we all were inexplicably and unpretentiously alive.