To Pollywog Creek from the Montana Prairie

My friend Patricia, at Pollywog Creek, takes the most stunning nature photos I've ever seen.  I always comment on her blog that our countryside and the plants that grow here are so subtle, so small that if you aren't looking carefully you might miss the beauty.  In the spring, Montana pulls out her very best and this afternoon I had a few minutes to photograph it for my friend at Pollywog Creek. 

We also have "friends-like-family" in Missouri who are homesick for the prairie.  Don, Shelly and baby Ison wrote with a copy of Don's grandmother's prairie poem that I'll post at the end of the photos.  Shelly writes that Frances grew up in South Dakota and I love her poem about springtime; I'm sure you will, too.  I wish I had met her; I believe we were kindred spirits.

Some folks like the desert

Where the snowflakes never fall,
Where the sun is always shining
And the world doesn't change at all;
Some like the mighty mountains
With their pretty Christmas trees,
Where the snow lies deep and level
And the lakes and rivers freeze.
Some even claim the city
With its bustle, clang and rattle,
Where a man doesn't have to don his boots,
Get out and hay the cattle.
But though the hills look bleak and bare,
And the winter winds blow raw,
There's nothing like the prairie
When the snow begins to thaw.
I like the way Old Meadowlark
Heralds in the spring;
He tops a fencepost deep in snow,
Throws back his head and sings.
The badger and the ground owl
Come out to prowl around,
While up the draw the muskrat
Makes riffles 'cross his pond.
The sandhill cranes come drifting back
Like leaves before a storm;
While high above the roof at night
The wild goose blows his horn.
Old Bullfrog clears his throat and croaks
A message to his kin;
They all come up to answer,
And it makes a cheerful din.
Flowers strew across a hill
Where prairie chickens drum;
Deep into dusk the grouse-birds chuckle
Like they were having fun.
Cattle call and fife of killdeer,
Scent of green things come to light;
White young moon and balmy southwind
Make a heaven out of night.
Threads of wild ducks winging northwards,
Old black crows that flap and caw;
Man, I'm glad I'm on the prairie
When the snow begins to thaw!