I traversed the rolling hills of emerald and shamrock grasses. As we coasted at 50 miles per hour, my arm floated outside the window, palm down, riding the wind like it did when I was a child. The air was cool and fresh.

The grass looked soft. The wisps were no match for the wind. It bent variegated rows of mustard flowers and five shades of green. Funny—grass is so boring in the city. But, not here in the fields of the Dakotas. I imagined running my hand across the tops, walking through a field.Read More »