“prairie dog town”
That was all the sign said. An old barn with farm equipment from days long gone sat in the grasslands. The longer I rested against the wooden fence though, the more I noticed I wasn’t alone.
Imagine an endless networks of tunnels with just as many holes scattered along the prairie for the little creatures to pop up and get a breath of fresh air and survey their surroundings.
I go further out into the badlands and find an even greater number of prairie dogs. Curious by nature, they chirp in their communicative tongues.
The grasslands are suddenly filled with the panicked screams of these creatures, deafeningly loud. I look to my right and see a skinny coyote rise over the hill, searching for a meal.
The warning call of the prairie dogs can not save everyone, as the coyote’s hunger has a greater will, and he snatches a prairie dog in its jaws and disappears over the hill.
The chirping sounds change to a sad song before quietly going silent.
It’s Mother Nature at its most brutal, the harsh reality of the circle of life.
I stand before her as a silent witness to her power.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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