On the Great Plains under a primal sky,
the mastodon roams, above eagles fly.
A saber tooth tiger growls in wrath,
the dire wolf's crossing his lonely path.
The sky above is filled with birds,
the ground below, filled with herds.
There are bison, antelope, and three-toed horse,
all must come to teeming waters, in thirst.
None is slower than the mighty sloth,
lumbering along in its own chosen cloth.
The saber tooth waits silently in the brush,
to bring down a kill with one swift rush.
The long teeth pierce prey by the neck,
the elk's legs crumble, it falls in a wreck.
Food for the tiger, the coyote, the worms,
fighting off vultures, ravens, and terns.
For the sea is not so very far away,
making the prairie soil into cliché clay.
Down 10,000 years and the prairie is no more,
three decades of farming have opened a sore.
The sky turns black as the storm approaches,
the dustbowl leaves nothing, not even for roaches.
Decades later, the soil is renewed and restored,
aquifer water opens the cornucopia's gourd.
Too much energy used, and the water runs out.
Drought returns and the pests have a rout.
When all is lost and everything is in doubt,
the primal returns and figures it out.
All they had to do was turn the prairie to fallow,
the Great Plains' return was easy to swallow.
The circle of life was once more sustained,
after any long drought, it always rained.
Tiger once again roam the prairie's plenty,
For all those that follow, seeking its bounty.
Copyright 2012 © Ronald W. Hull