Come Home

The land is calling to me. Its voice has been growing louder as the confines of the city have begun to strangulate. Blocks and boundaries have started to feel like balls and chains.

Normally, the call of mountains and rushing rivers beg my ear to listen, but of late, the murmur of the prairies grow louder.

In the waving of the corn, I hear it.

“Come home.”

In the blue sky that goes on for miles.

“Come home.”

In the rich, black soil that so readily nourishes the crops.

“Come home.”

In sunsets that are saturated in reds and purples and deep oranges, I hear it calling.

“Come home.”

In the rolling thunder as it pours over the prairie.

“Come home.”

My soul longs for a place as wide as imagination. My heart yearns for a parcel of land that is just mine, but then again, you can never really own the land - the land owns you.

The land calls to me as it called to my ancestors who have lived off of it for generations. Some people aren’t meant for cubicles and mile-high real estate. Some souls aren’t meant for city blocks and harsh pavement.

I can hear it in the lonely silence of the night and in the howl of the coyote.

I hear it whispering in my prayers.

“Come home.”