''Observation from a Wisconsin Prairie''

Autumn

An uninhibited chill whiffs across the wetland expanse of emergent flora born of the northwest.  Vermiculation of dried browns and tans dance and waver in the new persistence of the changing seasonal breath.  All remains hushed, other than the friction of bulrushes and cattails in a uniform sway.  The personalities of the wind veer its disposition and an annual newness is understood by all alive.  The junction of two supreme seasons are met, one exhausted and ready for dormancy, the other seeking annual inheritance and recreation.  Somewhere, lurking in the wind of October nightfall, a Wisconsin autumn is born once more.

The evening heavens to the west unfold orange hues that send one’s senses flowing like a glacial river of long ago.  To the east, darkness gathers the collective frigidity of the depth of an infinite universe.  Autumn announces her presence over my Wisconsin prairie, and the land surrenders in conformity to the seasonal amendment of nature.  I like to sympathize with the summer, but I am overwhelmed with autumns’ irresistible allure.  My prairie world makes the transition in her posture. I long in frustration to come along.

The Ahmic River

My split walnut paddle was graced by the early morning misty waters of the Ahmic River; or so my people were to call her in the not-so-distant future.  My Winnebago blood flows in peace much like the Ahmic’s.  She gently travels, winding, twisting and turning through a sea of wetlands and wet prairies.  My canoe at a slow pace travels faster than her waters.  To see slow water is good, for slow water has a reason to take time and be in no rush to depart.

I enter the mouth of the Ahmic River as it expands from a narrow creek to continue into an expanse of marsh that is abundant in game; this will make my people smile.  My eyes are filled with an early eastern sky that looks above distant woods of oak, maple and cottonwood.  The Great Spirit has given much attention to his creation here.  I feel the spirits presence as I enter a theater of life.  My paddle is caressed by a sea of aquatic plants that crowd the river.  They flow off my strokes as to welcome my people.  Waves of feeding birds fly overhead; their numbers cause the water to ripple.  An orange circle now lie over the Ahmic and her wetlands as if to look down upon her to protect the glacial edifice.  The air is cool, yet filled with an agreement of water, air, life and the feel of collaboration.  I feel a sense of one; I pause on my exploration to reflect in the waters.  They reflect back upon me with more inquisitiveness than I can contemplate.  This makes me slow my progress in frustration as to being incapable of understanding.  The spirit guides me to continue on.

To the west a flat high prairie lies above the marshes, a high prairie plain covered in tall grasses and smiling flowers.  Dust arises to the calm winds in a far off corner of the prairie, hinting at the movement of bison or elk.  The soft blue sky in the distance reflects waves of birds that appear to move from one woodland to another.  The movement however, never ends.  I pass a family of tall birds out on the bog.  Their calls send shivers through my skin.  They pay little attention to my insignificance.

To the east lie thickets of woods that surround low marshes.  Birds of every color move about in a rhythm of false slow motions.  Bare glacial mounds lay in similar directions, places where trees fear.  These hills are close to the heavens, good places for my people to dream in the night’s sky and build our monuments to please the earth.  My people can entomb the elders there in the hills with the eagle and the bison.  There they can be one with the goodness of the spirit and never forgotten.

I continue to the south, the sun now works its way to the sky.  I come to a circular opening in the great marsh and bog.  A window for the gods to view the internal earth.  Here I find fish surfacing and wate