It was a place where the grass rolled like velvetas the wind pushed it across the lonely prairie. The only thing that could beseen for miles were soft, rolling hills dyed gold from the sun. Alone in theknee-high grass on a small hill stood a man. The wind whipped his long strands ofebony around the feathers of his headdress. The sandy ripples of rawhide thatclung to his body sparkled in the noonday sun. He stood silent; his eyes peeredthrough the waves of heat dancing in the air. He watched the herd grazing in thedistance. The wind carried the stench of their wooly brown hides to the man'snose; the taste of the dust they kicked up with their powerful hooves entered hismouth. Standing miles away, he could distinctly hear their loud cries. Thisnomad's eyes, the eyes of a respected man, reflected that respect to the mammothanimal. This one man stood in awe of the powerful beast, the god of the plain.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.