still water shone blue with reflected sky. Ducks paddled and bobbed in purposeful circles. One made a chip chip sound, like a tiny spoon striking a tin plate. Muskrats quietly parted the waters with round backs, sleek as chestnuts, where last year they had waddled in mud.
A cloud of tiny insects enveloped the mare and wagon. Gustie waved one hand about her head and slapped the reins on Biddie’s rump. The mare lurched forward and pulled them out of the swarming gnats. “Good girl!” said Gustie and reined her back to a comfortable pace.
Once past Dryback Lake, the land on either side of her alternated between marsh, unbroken prairie, and perfect black squares of tilled soil.
Gustie allowed Biddie to go at her own pace, an easy trot, which lulled Gustie into simple enjoyment of the rhythmic motion under a warm sun, breathing cool air.
The twenty-mile journey was always a pleasure for Gustie. She loved this Dakota land, especially now, as it was waking up green and wet after eight months of cold sleep. The sweet wind lifted her hopes and ruffled her desires at the same time as it honed the edges of her sorrow.
After several hours, the ground began to roll, imperceptibly at first, until Gustie was aware of Biddie’s laboring up the first hill. The farther east they traveled, the more the land undulated, becoming rockier, the soil less suited for crops. She passed cows grazing on a hillside. They looked at her with large sleepy eyes and switched at flies with their tails. Filled coulees glistened like oval mirrors among the green and yellow grasses.
In the early evening, Gustie finally turned off the dirt road and endured the jolting of the wagon on its unforgiving wood wheels as it traversed the lumpy ground. Over the next rise, she saw Crow Kills.
From her present vantage point, Crow Kills looked like a small lake, but she was seeing only its western loop. Crow Kills lay like a satin sash draped around the hills. At no point could one see the whole of it; it wound long, deep, cold, clear. And while the lake appeared still in the quietude of evening, Gustie knew it was never really still. There was, on the most breathless of days, small ripples, a slosh against a rock here, the splash of a fish there, a wave rising subtly and merging silently back into its smooth surface. Crow Kills lived and breathed and freely bestowed its soothing spirit upon even those who cursed it, as Gustie had done once. The lake had absorbed her anger, and everything she had flung into it, with grace, with merely a ripple, and was as before visibly unchanged. Crow Kills understood and forgave. Now she found balm in its nearness. Someday she would like to live here. She felt if she could live near this water, the nightmare would leave her.
Gustie turned Biddie and the wagon bumped and clattered past the southwestern tip of the lake, past the irregular groves of cottonwoods, one of the few naturally occurring trees on a land where wheat grass was regent.
A gust of wind brought her scents of fresh water, moss, and rushes mingled with a subtle fishiness. She was close enough now to hear the whispering of the trees and to see their seeds nestled in beds of cotton floating on the breeze. She did not have to rein Biddie to the right, away from the lake and up a slight incline, because the mare knew where to go and when to stop. Gustie climbed down from the wagon and let the reins brush the ground. She was in no hurry. The light always lasted longer over the lake than anywhere else. She walked to a mound of earth at the top of an incline marked only by a tender cottonwood that Gustie had transplanted there two years ago. She had been afraid that the first winter would kill it, but the sapling had survived.
Gustie sank to the ground. Since the prairie grasses had overgrown it, the mound was hardly visible any longer as something separate from the hill.
She sat with her legs tucked under her, closed her eyes and dug her fingers into the soil. The
A cloud of tiny insects enveloped the mare and wagon. Gustie waved one hand about her head and slapped the reins on Biddie’s rump. The mare lurched forward and pulled them out of the swarming gnats. “Good girl!” said Gustie and reined her back to a comfortable pace.
Once past Dryback Lake, the land on either side of her alternated between marsh, unbroken prairie, and perfect black squares of tilled soil.
Gustie allowed Biddie to go at her own pace, an easy trot, which lulled Gustie into simple enjoyment of the rhythmic motion under a warm sun, breathing cool air.
The twenty-mile journey was always a pleasure for Gustie. She loved this Dakota land, especially now, as it was waking up green and wet after eight months of cold sleep. The sweet wind lifted her hopes and ruffled her desires at the same time as it honed the edges of her sorrow.
After several hours, the ground began to roll, imperceptibly at first, until Gustie was aware of Biddie’s laboring up the first hill. The farther east they traveled, the more the land undulated, becoming rockier, the soil less suited for crops. She passed cows grazing on a hillside. They looked at her with large sleepy eyes and switched at flies with their tails. Filled coulees glistened like oval mirrors among the green and yellow grasses.
In the early evening, Gustie finally turned off the dirt road and endured the jolting of the wagon on its unforgiving wood wheels as it traversed the lumpy ground. Over the next rise, she saw Crow Kills.
From her present vantage point, Crow Kills looked like a small lake, but she was seeing only its western loop. Crow Kills lay like a satin sash draped around the hills. At no point could one see the whole of it; it wound long, deep, cold, clear. And while the lake appeared still in the quietude of evening, Gustie knew it was never really still. There was, on the most breathless of days, small ripples, a slosh against a rock here, the splash of a fish there, a wave rising subtly and merging silently back into its smooth surface. Crow Kills lived and breathed and freely bestowed its soothing spirit upon even those who cursed it, as Gustie had done once. The lake had absorbed her anger, and everything she had flung into it, with grace, with merely a ripple, and was as before visibly unchanged. Crow Kills understood and forgave. Now she found balm in its nearness. Someday she would like to live here. She felt if she could live near this water, the nightmare would leave her.
Gustie turned Biddie and the wagon bumped and clattered past the southwestern tip of the lake, past the irregular groves of cottonwoods, one of the few naturally occurring trees on a land where wheat grass was regent.
A gust of wind brought her scents of fresh water, moss, and rushes mingled with a subtle fishiness. She was close enough now to hear the whispering of the trees and to see their seeds nestled in beds of cotton floating on the breeze. She did not have to rein Biddie to the right, away from the lake and up a slight incline, because the mare knew where to go and when to stop. Gustie climbed down from the wagon and let the reins brush the ground. She was in no hurry. The light always lasted longer over the lake than anywhere else. She walked to a mound of earth at the top of an incline marked only by a tender cottonwood that Gustie had transplanted there two years ago. She had been afraid that the first winter would kill it, but the sapling had survived.
Gustie sank to the ground. Since the prairie grasses had overgrown it, the mound was hardly visible any longer as something separate from the hill.
She sat with her legs tucked under her, closed her eyes and dug her fingers into the soil. The
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