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Listen to the whispers which only the most sensitive soul can hear. By listening to the whispers of the wind you can know what has gone on before you on this western soil.
The annals of history are written in the wind, who carries her tales ever onward to anyone who will take a moment to stand here and ponder. These western plains are alive with times past, the wind would have it no other way.
The reports of cavalry soldier's guns, telling of wars lost and of wars won; the roaring thunder of buffalo hooves, rhythmicly pounding on the plains; the crackle of lonely campfires at sunset; they are all here, resounding in the wind.
Laughter and music mix with sighs of loneliness and despair to whistle songs through the dry grass. The songs tell of lives ended here and of lives begun here.
Hear the rumble of the wagon wheels; wood against metal, metal against stone. It is a sound of lives being rebuilt, progress being made.
No markers remain to show the graves scattered across this untamed land. Only the wind lingers here to retell the grief. Mothers crying for lost children, husbands mourning for their wives, the wind tells it all, forgetting nothing.
The sun-baked bones tell little, but the wind, ah, how willing she is to speak. The predator was starving, the prey was weak, so one life was taken and one life life was spared. The wind feels no remorse as she tells the story, because she knows, better than I, that life will go on.
There is nothing haunting or sinister here. It was love of peace and freedom that brought men and kept them in this place. Any grumblings of evil are easily drowned out by the sounds of love. Lullabys, hymns, and laughter, though mere whispers in the air, overpower any evil that may have been.
Prayers linger here still. There are the prayers of families seeking respite from the harsh, dry sun, thanking God for all that is good. There are prayers of Indians as they chant out their desires to keep the land of their ancestors from white man's clutches. Cowboys pray to find water soon to keep their horses and herds from dropping on the trail. Children pray for grandparents left behind, too old or weak to make the long, hard trip. With the echos of prayer comes the quiet sound of peace.
Memory can forsake us, growing dim or fading completely in time, but the wind will never forget what has gone on here. The stories will be retold again and again, to anyone with a sensitive soul who is willing to stand still and listen to the whispers.
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