Wednesday, May 8, 2013

I remember coming out upon the northern Great Plains in the late spring.  There were meadows of blue and yellow wildflowers on the slopes, and I could see the still, sunlit plain below, reaching away out of sight.  At first there is no discrimination in the eye, nothing but the land itself, whole and impentrable.  But then the smallest thing begin to stand out of the depths- herds and rivers and groves- and each of these has perfect being in terms of distance and of silence and of age.  Yes, I thought, now I see the earth as it really is; never again will I see things as I saw them yesterday or the day before.                            -The way to rainy mountain by N. Scott Momaday

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