| rdfs:comment | - When you live in Kansas, you drive through miles of country between the farming towns. At night when you let your eyes gaze over the fields, you can see them far away on the horizons. On the mornings when fog rolls over the land, they're closer than you think. They don't quite walk across the fields, but drift, and some kick up dirt devils wherever they sit. They look like you and me, but they're lost. They're lost because they have no eyes, and they drift because they have no souls.
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| abstract | - When you live in Kansas, you drive through miles of country between the farming towns. At night when you let your eyes gaze over the fields, you can see them far away on the horizons. On the mornings when fog rolls over the land, they're closer than you think. They don't quite walk across the fields, but drift, and some kick up dirt devils wherever they sit. They look like you and me, but they're lost. They're lost because they have no eyes, and they drift because they have no souls. They're people who've died in these fields, their graves disrupted year after year. Native Americans, pioneers, sodbusters, bank robbers, whores, starved children; yes, the children. Suffocating in the dust bowl, bitten by rattlesnakes, thrown from farm equipment, drowning in the streams. They cry for their mothers and fathers, wandering lonely in the same field, consumed by a fire and shot down in the civil war. They're everywhere, and they want to be seen. Most of all they want to rest.
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