It Reigns Poem by Dennis Lange

The sky is blue-cloudless, but still the sky rains,
Not water it holds, but the dust of the Plains.
The mist that is brown like the land, not the sky,
Now wearies the nose as it worries the eye.

The Plains are a table, as flat as can be,
And wind blows there often as careless and free
As stallions not stayed by a hand or a rein
Run wild o'er the prairie with high flying mane.

Now, north wind is blowing, both here and up there,
And carries its burdens for others to share.
The distance it travels is three hundred miles,
And neither their faces or our faces have smiles.

For their land is blowing away from its home
And one day will leave them as bare as a bone,
While we are all suff'ring from soil that won't stay -
It settles on hills that the rains wash away.