Wind-folded prairies tickle great storms from the sky. Stalks of gold and brass sprout largely, to become bramble in two seasons.

Wet air drenched with sun energizes the oaks, maples and hickory, fatigues the farmer. Thistles, red clovers, chicory sprout easily.

Queen Anne's lace offers second chances to question the venom of the hemlock. Creeks breathe and exhale into great rivers. This place used to be all forest. Can you imagine? What takes more skill? The hawk's hunt or the vulture's scavenge?

Exhausted silos remind us of the sorrows of time's movement. And I think of the families that built them: the daughters who married the neighbor boys, and spoke to the census takers, about the children they lost.

The dirty hems of their dresses, the dirty hands of their sons, the dirty headstones that sit now like the silos, sinking limestone and lineages, into damp clay earth, once used to make cookware by ancients.

Lands of empire or industry. The soil here is an Empress. Orchards, mills, manufacturing, mines. If you aren't fortunate enough to wield a scalpel, a scythe will still do you fine.

As highways are paved over the skeletons of Hopewells, the coneflowers have long watched with a million black pupils.

America, the beautiful.