Give me the cold crisp air,
slung by the soul of a gusty wind,
along and aloft in a blue-harvest sky.
Give me the gold-tipped grass
that waves and weaves near
the meadowlark’s joyous cry.
Give me the burnt-rust red
of a deep sunset
and the crack of a thousand corn.
Give me the horizon
and its tranquil line
drawn from the quill where I was born.
Give me Nebraska.