Give Me Nebraska

Give me the cold crisp air

slung by the soul of a gusty wind,

along and aloft in a blue-harvest sky.

Give me the gold-tipped grass

that waves and weaves near

the meadowlark’s joyous cry.

Give me the burnt-rust red

of a deep sunset

and the crack of a thousand corn.

Give me the horizon

and its tranquil line

drawn from the quill where I was born.

Give me Nebraska.