Soft and gray were the chalkboard skies,

as small drops of the mornings dew,

clung in vain to the  prairie grasses golden hue

It was upon this grassy knoll, I spied

An old chief of days gone by.

 Large tears filled his eyes

as he surveyed the vast open plain.

He watched, he cried,

 he spoke to the heavens in muted sighs.

For

He knew the dancing sun would be here soon,

and only then could he proclaim,

that his journey here is now done.

 In the distance, he could now see,

the "Elders Of The Sky."

Each one mounted on a galloping golden steed.

Flaring his nostrils wide,

 the old chief drew in his last breath,

as his senses not only contained

 the elders by sight,

but now, also in sound.

For they left the clouds that held them,

And they, on their steeds of gold,

came with crashing hoofs to the ground

With a smile on his face,

 the old chief exhaled and let out a cry,

as he too joined the elder spirits of the sky

 J. Allen Wilson © 2003