The beauty of the plains is one that only a few appreciate.
Terms like spectacular, magnificent, stunning, grand or impressive do not come to mind when the “Flyover State”… Kansas is described.
Its attractiveness is more subtle. It speaks to the wild side—raw, elusive beauty of nature.
This time of year, the hills are muted with the soft rhythmic sway of sepia grasses peeking through the snow. Rock outcroppings exclaim the elements by their very shape and edges.
It is a freeing kind of space where the wind and sun delegate its beauty and terrain. Trees bend to the north, obeying the south winds of summer. They somehow take root in the soil, and tussle to make a stand.
My husband often visits the BLM mustangs in the Flint Hills, and this year with the early snow these photos turned out both beautiful and haunting. I could almost imagine Native Americans making their way across the grasslands in search of shelter, blankets pulled snug against their exposed faces.
These ethereal images of the mustangs are so striking, each conjure up mystical tales in my imagination.
It’s in my nature to feel sorry for these regal icons of the west. I want to give them shelter—feed them substantial fodder, but it isn’t my business. They are resilient animals and will live or die by nature’s decree, not mine.
I’m just grateful for their presence and graceful beauty, so like the prairie they wander.