Houses that once held farmers of old still remain in this countryside, it’s owners probably six feet under in the backyard. The creaking timbers and crumbling bricks watch over them….
A dog barks loudly, echoing against the bluest of skies, warning no one of my approach. Standing in the silence of a lone tree, he eventually comes to my side and I scratch his chin. He pants and for a moment I think he smiles.
Fields of cows mixed with deer bounding by, a side of nature rarely seen by these eyes. An old barn and windmill watch over the serene scene with a strange omnipotence.
A lone house sits atop a hillside. I think to the infamous novel, In Cold Blood , and of the innocent blood shed for no rhyme or reason. How the pureness of a family was destroyed by evil in the beautiful heartland of this area.
The hills also hold images of a new era, where modernization and big corporations are destroying the local economy. The burned out remnants of a once peaceful life, forever gone like ashes in the wind.
Yet the resiliency remains, the hard work ethic is intact, the spirit unwavering, and I believe that just as the barns stand tall in the setting sun, so will the beauty of the Flint Hills.
