An open, barren plain just outside Meadow City, located about thirty or so miles east of the Colorado border, spotted by short, green grass mixed into higher beige patches, beckoned the lonely in spirit. There was one exception to this serene scene. One spot was dotted mostly by old gravestones sticking out of the ground and tucked under a lone, high cottonwood tree, where no seed wanted to grow. The tree stood as a monument to the Lincoln family who had settled this spot of ground generations ago, alone. Behind the tree a walking path led up to and over a hill.
Wind almost always blew in and around, sometimes funneled from the sky above, as a trance amidst the West Kansas plain and folk and nature's wonders. There was no escape. It had become kin to all that lived and breathed. If the wind ever had stopped, the absence acted as a bad omen. The meaning of no wind sprung silently among the townspeople the imminent horror of a tornado come to life.
On this day, the wind remained the wind, caressed the leaves of the cottonwood. All was at peace and on pace for serenity of the usual West Kansas moments of fealty to the land and to the life bestowed in a wealth of familial blessings abundant in such a place. The story unfolded like napkin linen skillfully placed upon the lap of an eatery patron who harbored a voracious appetite.
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