Fight Sequence Rainbow Arc of Fire: Autumn Saga

I had fun writing Autumn Saga, even if the book had a mixed reception. The Kindle edition has a few changes and even a significant chapter deletion meant to mitigate some of the more "preachy" aspects that a couple of readers found annoying. This is the first chapter where Paul and Greg act together to deal with a palpable, physical threat:

Chapter Thirty

That evening, Paul and Greg are getting dressed to go to the Park to catch a possible gay basher.

"OK," Paul immediately asks, staring into the closet, "what should we wear?"

"Why are you asking me?" Greg laughs, a bit indignantly. "Do you think I used to cruise the Park at night and am therefore knowledgeable about the various fashion statements made by lonely and sex-starved men?"

"That's not what I meant," Paul smiles, nudging his lover. "You're over-reacting. I just figured that since you've lived by the Park for more than three years, you've occasionally seen guys coming and going late at night."

"I'm not in the habit of noticing who's wearing what when they enter or exit the Park, Paul," Greg flatly states. "Most of the men I see are either walking dogs or are jogging. Nobody seems to be dressed peculiarly, if that's what you mean. And they may simply be walking their dogs or jogging rather than looking for sex."

"That's all I wanted to know," Paul explains, giving his partner a hug. "I wasn't implying anything about your behavior or theirs. I was just hoping for the two of us to look inconspicuous."

"I know," Greg admits, squeezing Paul's hand. "It's just that this whole topic of sex in the Park bothers me. On the one hand, I understand some of the motivations of guys who are lonely and looking for relief, even in public places late at night. But I'm also sensitive to the opinion that public sex is just plain sleazy. That if you do pick up someone, you ought to take him home and not do it in a public park or bathroom, even if it is late at night, it’s dark, and no one is likely to catch you in the act."

"I understand," Paul soothes. "I'm sure that the first car that was parked in some lover's lane somewhere was occupied by a straight couple, making babies in the back seat. Gays are certainly not the only ones who engage in sex outside of a darkened bedroom with the shades drawn."

"True," Greg agrees. "Anyway, I'm sure Levis and T-shirts will probably be acceptable attire for strolling through the Park late at night."

"And a light jacket," Paul adds, reaching into the closet. "It's been much cooler lately."

A little while later, the two are walking across the width of Cheesman Park, trying to act like potential victims instead of two hunks who could beat any possible attacker to a pulp.

"Are you picking up anything?" Paul asks Greg regarding his telepathy.

"Not a thing!" Greg explains. "Well, a couple of people we know are about, but I don't sense any predatory mental activity. By the way, what time is it?"

Consulting his glowing watch, Paul announces, "It's just after midnight. The 'witching hour!'"

"That may be," Greg smiles, "but there aren't even any witches out right now."

"Why don't we take that path over by those trees behind the Pavilion?" Paul suggests. "It's always rather darker over there."

As they continue to walk, Greg observes, "You can just see our new condo through the trees."

"You're right," Paul nods. "The Park looks so beautiful in this full moon. I think.…"

The sentence is left incomplete as a massive, furry shape smashes through the low brush by the Botanic Gardens and leaps at Paul, pulling him down with a terrible snarling and vicious tearing sound.

"Paul!" Greg shouts, trying to make mental contact with the creature, assuming that some rabid dog is on a rampage. It is only then, as he reads no thoughts at all, that he sees now that the creature appears to be more in the shape of a large, furry man than a dog since, whatever it is, it is garbed in torn clothing, seemingly burst from within.

Greg grabs at the creature's wide shoulders to pull him off of Paul while Paul struggles to get out from under the manbeast.

From out of nowhere, a sudden blast of wind catches the creature unexpectedly and hurls him aside, rolling him across the path and into the bushes. A terrible thrashing begins and then seems to disappear, first along the fence, then over the wide gate, and finally into the grounds of the Botanic Gardens itself.

Concerned, Greg reaches down to help up his lover, "Paul, are you all right?"

"Yeah," Paul nods, springing up off the ground and checking himself for wounds.

"I don't see any cuts or any bleeding," Greg exclaims, surprised and relieved. "What the hell was that anyway?"

"I don't know," Paul responds. "It scared the hell out of me because it moved so fast. And I couldn't believe the strength of that thing. If I hadn't conjured up that wind, I'm not sure the two of us could have gotten him off me. By all rights, I ought to be severely torn up, but I feel only a couple of bruises where I hit the ground. I need to sit down for a minute."

"Here's a concrete bench," Greg offers as he helps Paul to it, even though the younger man seems only unnerved rather than injured.

Catching his breath, Paul asks, "Did you try to read that creature's thoughts?"

"I did," Greg confesses, "and I got absolutely nothing. It wasn't even like when Colonel Traxall shut down his mind to me when he knew that I was trying to read his thoughts last summer."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Greg slowly explains, warily shaking his head and looking through the fence into the moon-bathed grounds of the Gardens, "I got no thought processes at all; as if that creature, whatever it is, has no mind to read!"

---

Fight Sequence Rainbow Arc of Fire: A Mile-High Saga

With any super-hero series, I suspect the reader looks for, and even expects, a decent fight sequence here and there. As the series progressed, those sequences became more elaborate as more heroes joined the team, their powers more elaborate than just Greg's abilities in the first volume, especially since he has only just gained his superior talents:

Chapter Thirty-one

He bolts through his apartment door; the cats follow to the sill and stop, wondering what’s the matter.

He races down the stairs and out the side door, exiting under the carport. He immediately spies a young man with a can of spray paint, applying a graphic design to a garage door across the alley.

“Hey,” Greg yells out, “I don’t think the owner would want you to do that.”

The young man wheels about, dropping the spray can and pulling a gun from his baggy jeans. Before Greg can react, he fires.

“Shit!” Greg exclaims as he recoils sideways in time for the bullet to barely graze his arm instead of hitting his chest. His new, increased quickness saved him. Still, blood flows from the wound.

Mentally, he orders the kid to drop the gun. Instead, the jerk fires again, Greg ducking in time so that the bullet hits a brick building behind him.

Thinking fast, Greg sends a mental image of himself escaping down the alley. The kid fires at the fleeing figure.

In a moment, Greg is at the kid’s side and decks him with one angry fist to the chin.

The kid collapses backward onto the blacktop, the gun falling from his hand.

Greg kicks it aside with his foot and then drops to the ground, the powerful new adrenaline in his system still racing fast.

He eyes the kid keenly, wondering why his command to drop the gun had no effect. Even now, he feels the intense hatred and evil that pervaded the kid’s mind.

“The intensity must have blocked my thoughts,” he realizes.

Mentally, he seeks out a nearby police car. He locates one on the other side of Cheesman Park. Subtly, he directs the officer to the alley.

As the cruiser turns the corner, Greg stands up and waves. The kid is still out.

---

Poetic Passages Rainbow Arc of Fire: Olive Branch

Again, this final volume in the series has not been reviewed by anyone, and it has potentially only been read by two or three. My family had gathered in White Cloud, KS, for the second time in less than a year for a funeral. We'd been to California in March for my cousin's funeral that same year. This is the opening chapter of Olive Branch:

Chapter One

In early morning, while all of the others are soundly sleeping, Greg quietly eases himself up off the couch where he has spent the better part of a fitful night. This sturdy sofa has never been the most comfortable place to sleep. Either he is a couple of inches too long or the sofa is a couple of inches too short. However, he refuses to find fault with these meager accommodations, especially at a time like this. His mother’s family has been forced once again by misfortune to come together, and now is certainly not the time to complain about trivial matters.

Carefully, he steps over his partner, Paul, still asleep on the carpeted floor. The floor was the only other option to the narrow couch, what with all four double beds in his aunt and uncle’s cozy house already claimed before they arrived. The two of them could easily have slept in the crew quarters of the ship, along with their four closest friends; but remaining here with his relatives seemed more appropriate and comforting for everyone directly involved.

He can tell by the gray glow from the picture window, just across the narrow living room from the sofa, that another glorious dawn is upon them. He slightly cringes, though, when he notices that several spiders have spun their intricate and highly successful traps outside, between the upper frame of the wide window and the low eave of the roof.

Greg ruefully reflects upon how there never appears to be a shortage of meals for hungry predators in this rural part of the nation, where nature seems forever in a state of mass profusion, especially during the full bloom of May. While he may have the remarkable ability to glean the most compelling motivations in all living creatures with his wondrous telepathic powers, to peer into their very psyches fully unhindered, he still finds these raw instincts a bit disconcerting when they involve matters of survival or death.

Instead, he quickly focuses his thoughts upon the front sidewalk and lawn, trying to ignore the helpless victims dangling just above his averted gaze. The lush green grass quickly segues from lying flat for a few feet to plunging steeply downward, toward a thick row of stately trees far below, which anchor the wide base of this scenic property.

“It must have been difficult for Uncle Hap to mow that steep hillside year after year,” Greg sighs to himself.

He also spies the North-South, two-lane Highway 7 that lies immediately beyond the tall trees below, at the very base of the hill; but no passing cars can yet be glimpsed through the thick foliage at this early hour.

A narrow width of graded land, forming a rough stretch to a rudimentary concrete boat landing, divides the paved roadway from the wide, swiftly flowing, Big Muddy River that effectively separates White Cloud, Kansas, from Missouri, in the extreme northeast corner of the Jayhawk state.

A long, dark ridgeline, well to the east, beyond countless acres of rich farmland in the neighboring state--mostly planted in soybeans and corn this time of year--easily delineates where glaciers, several thousand years ago, carved this five-mile-wide swath between the several low hills on this side--where the modest, single-story house surveys the panoramic view--and those black bluffs.

Because the meandering Missouri River enriches the soil, gives life to this land with bountiful harvests, year in and year out, settlers arrived in sufficient numbers throughout much of the 1800’s, to eventually found a modest town on July 4th, 1857, four years before the outbreak of the Civil War.

Most migrants continued west, however, in seemingly endless streams of rugged wagon trains, first through here and then through St. Joseph, Missouri, where the pony express began its brief but fabled service in 1860-61. In the 19th century, enough of these early visitors stayed and built homes--a few elegant, though many more barely adequate. But those who did remain fruitfully multiplied, regardless of their economic status; and the town reached its apex with a population of 1,100 souls in 1910-11.

For a time, the rich bounty was sufficient lure to keep them and their descendants tilling the land. Unfortunately, these humble farm folk may not have always been satisfied with the results of so much hard labor, what with crop prices forever fluctuating, mostly downward, especially throughout the 20th century.

Named for a chief of the local Iowa tribe, White Cloud is a small town that Greg’s mother, Anita, knew as a little girl. Born here on July 4th, 1921, she, her two younger sisters, Norma Jean and Doris, and younger brother, Robert, were raised amidst the straitened circumstances of the early-to-mid 1920’s, after farm prices had fallen after the end of The Great War. Moreover, prices fell further still from the acute strictures of the Great Depression in the 1930’s, precipitated by the stock market crash of 1929.

Eventually, yet another significant war came along and took most of the able-bodied men away to military training camps in Texas, California, Florida, and elsewhere. After nearly four years of violent, incessant conflict, no straightforward form of inducement could continue to keep enough of them down on the farm.

They had all experienced the seductive attraction of so many faraway places, where a man didn’t have to work the stubborn land to make a decent living. So many more of them wanted to live in the expanding cities and developing suburbs of what had become the world’s most prosperous and powerful nation. As an even more profitable alternative, they could labor in contemporary factories or fancy office buildings rather than on these outdated farms, where modern conveniences were still few and hardships frequent. Most of the veterans soon had post-war families to provide for, and the latest post-war dreams to realize. Small backwater towns such as White Cloud could no longer entice enough of them to stay. The population swiftly declined after WW II, and today there are only 250 residents remaining.

As anyone now can readily see, the majority never did come back, at least not permanently. Periodically, some do return, but mostly to pay brief visits to friends and relatives. Typically, the few days spent back here are merely to participate in the inevitable class reunions, weddings, or funerals, for those who had been left behind or for those whose bodies were brought back for burial.

---

Poetic Passages Rainbow Arc of Fire: Shattered Dawn

This ninth volume, only available as a Kindle Edition from amazon.com, has probably only been read by three or four people. This and the tenth volume are two of the most exciting volumes in the series, but neither has been reviewed by anyone anywhere. This is the first page of the novel:

Chapter One

The time is 2:00 A.M.

Low, heavily laden clouds creep in overnight to entirely cover The Mile-High City, wrapped in deepest slumber at this impossibly early hour. A light snow of wide, wet flakes is even now falling, further lulling an already submissive cityscape.

BOOM!

A sudden, deafening, unanticipated blast occurs high overhead. This startling sound is quite unexpected because the season is not yet verging into spring.

A continuous rumbling immediately begins, even before the initial crack of thunderous noise concludes, having disturbed the sleep of many like some cosmic herald, announcing the end of their world.

Far to the northwest, this gathering resonance initiates a lengthy passage, gradually tumbling over and over itself, well above deserted streets and darkened buildings. It does not stop stumbling across the now-wary landscape until it passes far away, over the distant horizon and the southern suburbs, and is at last spent.

In a small, first floor bedroom, in a much larger house carved into three condos on Capitol Hill, the pulsing center of this thriving metropolis, a calico cat lifts its head with a start.

Her two human owners also sit up in bed in consternation, almost raising themselves in unison at this rude interruption.

“Wha…?” Greg mumbles, his eyes attempting to focus in the darkened room. He then involuntarily yawns while glancing down at Miranda’s mottled head and sharply pointed ears, for she has been dozing between their tangled legs for warmth. However, she seems quite poised at this moment to leap from atop the comfortable bed and find a convenient refuge where she can hide from these ominous sounds.

---

Poetic Passages Rainbow Arc of Fire: A House Divided

While Who Has Dominion? receives the most divided opinions, A House Divided is generally felt to be the best and most entertaining volume in the series, up to this point. It was certainly, for me, the most entertaining to write:

Chapter Seventy-four

After his disappointing meeting with Dino, Greg slowly makes his way toward Little Round Top. But he first makes a slight detour to pass by the National Cemetery itself, which contains the old stone tabs that we living inevitably keep on our honored dead. The many circular rows of small, white, stone markers dully glow in the moonlight like aged and discolored dragon's teeth that have long ago lost their bite.

He cannot help but recall how the brave soldiers buried here fought so tenaciously, to force this great nation to remain united, even at the sharp point of a bayonet. Despite significant cultural differences existing in the North and South, these gallant warriors refused to allow a great nation to permanently divide, like cancerous tissue, never to heal.

Fortunately, Union victories here at Gettysburg and then at Vicksburg, Mississippi, one day later, were the beginning of the end for the slave-holding South and the forces of disunion, though it would take almost two more years of war to achieve final victory, Greg recalls.

At Vicksburg, Grant emerged as the general most likely to defeat Lee; and at Gettysburg, Lee displayed a fallibility that he had never shown before. Perhaps it was overconfidence in the abilities of his troops. Or perhaps it was something else more lasting and significant.

Deprived of the critical support and wise council of General Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson after his untimely death at Chancellorsville two months before, Lee never again would have enough able lieutenants for the critical battles ahead. In addition, those tenacious Southern troops who would die at Gettysburg and in other battles to come became increasingly difficult to replenish when attrition inexorably replaced esprit and gallantry as decisive factors in the war.

The North, as Lincoln and Grant understood so well, held most of the numerical advantages in a relentless conflict. The ablest commanders did not always lead northern armies, especially in the first years of the war; but the math favored them and would methodically cripple the rebellion in one savage battle after another. Each brutal encounter, whether a draw or even a tactical defeat for the North, actually became a strategic setback for the South as more of its men were gravely wounded, captured, or killed.

Greg also cannot forget the immortal words that Lincoln spoke here four months after the battle, when the National Cemetery was to be dedicated and the President had been asked to attend. Perhaps the shortest speech ever made at such a momentous time in the history of a divided nation, Lincoln captured the passionate spirit that drove Northern citizens and soldiers alike: "...this nation...shall have a new birth of freedom...."

Year after year, Union troops persevered even as final victory seemed no closer. At times it must have appeared as if no one could lead them to that glorious victory, not here at Gettysburg, or anywhere else. Perhaps they even wondered if the capacity for victory lay within them, if they would ever manifest sufficient fortitude to win on all fronts.

Before Greg turns away from the National Cemetery toward Cemetery Ridge and Little Round Top, he realizes as never before that contemporary generations precariously stand upon the shoulders of past giants. Significantly, however, these advantageous heights allow the present age to visualize a future that those in the receding past could never have imagined, a nation where all men and women might enjoy that "new birth of freedom…."

As he resumes his inevitable hike, he knows that he also cannot turn back, cannot deviate from the path ahead no matter how much simpler it would be to surrender to Dino and the others, to let them keep their powers without really earning them, to allow them to win without being held accountable for the great responsibility placed in their hands, even if that opportunity was given by a goddess who sows nothing but deceit and dissent.

To him, this conflict has become a matter of principle. One cannot treat others the way Michael and his accomplices have treated Greg and his friends, no matter how much they may believe that they have been wronged in the past, or especially because of what they expect to gain by their foul treachery in the short run.

---

Poetic Passages Rainbow Arc of Fire: Who Has Dominion?

This is the one book in the series that engenders the most divergent opinions. Some like the first half and not the second. Some like the second half and not the first. The following chapter comes from well into the second half:

Chapter Seventy-eight

Scaling the last of the prismatic steps, the Olympian deities finally arrive at their stark new homeland in the stratosphere.

The razor-thin dome of atmosphere hovering above this bleak domain of Asgard provides a striking contrast to the palpable blue skies they observed at so many earlier levels. However, with each higher step, the pastel layers of heaven evaporated one by one. By the time the remaining eleven gods and goddesses reach the cutting edge of this lofty precipice, almost no soothing color remains.

The billowy white cumulus clouds especially, and even the thin wisps of cirrus ice crystals strung higher up, have since dropped off so that only glimmering stars and twinkling planets pierce the invasive gloom of a world languishing up here in perpetual twilight. Those prickly and bright beams of the nearby universe create an enormous fabric of sparkling patterns and spirals that unfold above the dark landscape of Asgard. The tiny lights of universal nightfall then trail out along the neighboring arm of our galaxy like a shawl.

In addition to the remote stars, local sheets of shimmering color, the shifting northern lights that hang lucent up near the pole, undulate and quiver just beneath this frosty region of Asgard. It is as if a cosmic breeze were blowing these crystalline curtains about on a frigid winter's evening because someone has carelessly left a window open to the cold.

Signal fires illuminate several surface routes laid out before them as if this were a country perpetually at war and in need of a permanent and rapid means of communication.

The main road at their feet, and a grand hall in the distance, seem to reflect the starry skies overhead with the mirroring quality of a precious metal like silver or a fashionable material such as shiny chrome.

"It could be worse, I suppose," Hestia finally determines, glancing about crestfallen because so little strong light brightens this elevated landscape.

"No wonder much of what Odin was purported to have done here in Asgard was sit and brood," Hades suggests.

"Only your shadowy Underworld is a more cheerless place than this," Athena teases. Then she soberly reconsiders her flippant observation after sampling the thin air, "The stench of impending death also permeates this place."

"I, more than any of you, know exactly what fresh death smells like, Athena," Ares confesses. "It bothers me not in the least, and it should not bother any of you. Let us reconnoiter that great hall ahead of us. Perhaps we shall find it well stocked of weapons with which to defend ourselves."

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Poetic Passages Rainbow Arc of Fire: Harmony of Spheres

This is another of those early, portentous chapters that I often used in my novels:

Chapter Two

Far above the Earth, in an otherwise blackened void, and at the surging center of our densely populated planetary system, a solar furnace continues to pulse and radiate. Spilling nuclear fire and expelling stellar light across billions of miles and years, the constant sun engenders an enduring negligence in those of us unaccustomed to glancing up from our momentary shadowing of the land.

No longer does the fiery orb command worldwide obeisance as it used to in the ancient days of natural caves, or simple thatched huts, or even elaborate stone temples. Only a few faint whispers can still be heard giving benediction to the sun for our precious lives and this precarious existence.

Yet before the very planets themselves took notable shape--potential platforms for all manner of cosmic possibilities--Sol burned true.

The searing sun burns still. All the while it compromises its own bright future for the glowing premise of our present age.

Even now, breathing heavenly life from deep within its billowing diaphragm, particles of enlightenment are sent pulsating outward in a continuous stream. Set upon portentous voyages of discovery, these benevolent beams of energy may eventually illuminate the very essence of the universe. Along the warped curves of space, and before the envelope of nothingness is breached, all of the infinite recesses of astral complexity should then be brought to light.

At that precise moment, just before the last galaxies indignantly sputter and collapse, and as the most significant questions about our own existence find answers, the God of all creation may potentially be exposed, or possibly revealed.

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Poetic Passages in Rainbow Arc of Fire: Slight of Mind

The following is a pivotal, early chapter in the book regarding what happens to Greg and, therefore, to the other, newly empowered, Rainbow Arc of Fire superheroes, but most especially to his relationship with Paul. Slight of Mind is one of the most autobiographical novels in the series for it parallels almost exactly events in my own life.

Chapter Five

Soon, Greg's attention is diverted by the trio of enticing crystals arrayed in the window nearby, and by the many clear stones arranged on the sill. He contemplates the vagaries of fate and folly and reaches over to give the three dangling spheres a twirl.

Staring deeply through their sparkling contours, he speculates about the several courses that a single life can take, the alternate turns that one might make in the great maze that life sometimes becomes for unwary human beings.

Delighted by a reflective brightness that suddenly dazzles him, he turns to watch the refracted multitude of rainbow arcs become a flying profusion across the surfaces of every form and figure in this antiseptic room. This casual effort adds so many rainbow colors as a purifying agent to the current pain.

The paths taken by the many spectra emanating from the crystal orbs cross one another here and there, some seeming to meld briefly in passing; but then all quickly race onward once again.

As if in the momentary granting of a wish, or the temporary touch of an elusive dream, to Greg all sadness now seems in abeyance, every possible loss briefly held in check. But he knows that this visual effect will not last for long. While life may be altered temporarily, even extended by the willful intrusions of the living, it cannot absolutely be changed for the dying or for the dead. Though one's thoughts, no matter how pervasive, are hopefully inclined toward permanent resuscitation, eventually all such efforts will fail. The world transitions, as it should, and another soul moves beyond.

Yet with every casual speculation, each stray desire unchecked, what might we survivors curiously discover? And what might we thoughtlessly discard, should we, or some other, have a mind to slight the current pattern of our lives, a course that may once have appeared permanently penned onto paper or seemingly etched in stone?

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Poetic Passages in Rainbow Arc of Fire: Worlds Beneath Us

Worlds Beneath Us begins with the impending demise of my cat Schnozz. I have had to put three of my cats to sleep in my nearly 20 years living in Denver. Each death was heartbreaking and even painful. For Schnozz and Miranda, it was cancer. For Sneezer, it was old age. He was 21-years-old. The following is the first chapter which, like a Greek Chorus, is intended to set the mood for the book.

Chapter One

Spring. In the midst of life bursting anew or renewing itself, when mares and colts, cows and calves, feast on the freshest of fields, nature welcomes alteration, adjustments with which all existence must contend. No matter how contrary, even mating birds attempt to fly strictly in tandem, no matter how perilous, in an aerial formation of soaring courtship.

This year in Colorado the seasons appear to have traded places, with winter alternately warmer than these many days now trailing the equinox, when the sun should hold a more effective sway. Yet the glowing orb groans along in labored passage, with all manner of warmer currents checked at a crossroads. Continuing snow and then rain showers chill the sinews and bones and branches that might have grown longer limbs by now, flowing forth well before this. The sloshing of distant oceans and the turbulence of far air streams consequently bury the high country again and again, yielding to fears that an inevitable runoff will produce flooding elsewhere, if not everywhere, downstream. Over-abundant blessings must inevitably lead to a curse, humanity sincerely believes.

Yet against these seemingly insurmountable odds, the living fabric seasonally furrows, row upon row, only barred now and then from branching prematurely. Opposing this burdened explosion of our communal being, death retains a privileged right to intervene, imposing a new balance for all mortal species.

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Poetic Passages in Rainbow Arc of Fire: Souls Within Stone

Souls Within Stone was my ode to nature and the natural world.

Chapter Forty-eight

Later, Paul takes over the driving. Greg settles into the passenger's seat and looks out of the window, daydreaming about the decade of the 1980's, the years immediately after his forced resignation from the Air Force, when he taught U.S. History courses to community college students at Fort Carson, the large mechanized army base south of the city of Colorado Springs. Soon, he dozes off, describing for the students of his current dreams what some aspects of life on the Western plains must have been like to those who lived in this region more than 100 years ago:

"You know, one morning could feel pretty much like another, looking back, as the cowboys herded their cattle from Texas through Colorado, northward to Cheyenne, here on the western edge of the second greatest prairie system that humans have attempted to traverse, then exploit, and finally settle.

"For a few thousand years before the coming of the cowboy, those who were descended from those who arrived here first both lived and died on these plains. Eventually, the native peoples succeeded in accommodating themselves to the expansive grasslands, up to a point. The layers upon layers of culture that they and their tribes leavened into the topsoil are more profound, if far less intrusive, than the ruts of wagon wheels that European settlers later ground into the rich dirt on their way West in the mid and late 1800's.

"Two centuries before the wagon trains and the cattle drives, explorers ventured out from Spain and from the new Spanish colonies to the south. In the century after that, trappers and traders, primarily from France, culled the western rivers and streams for beaver. And in the 100 years after those hardy Frenchmen nearly wore the furry mammals to extinction, the cowboys pushed their four-hoofed beasts reluctantly out of Texas, to eventual slaughter and mass consumption in the Midwest and the East. These massive cattle drives were made possible by the killing of the buffalo, a competitor to the cattle for the precious grasses of the prairie from Colorado to the Missouri River in the northeast and on to the Mississippi in the east.

"Humans must eat and clothe themselves, no matter how far afield their food is gleaned or the cloth for their coats is cut. Yet the soil anywhere you look on the Earth is more eternal and unyielding than any men or women whom we send forth into each new frontier, for every generation must eventually rest heavy beneath the fading sunset, its daily labors done.

"Even now, sagging prairie barns, once raised and hammered together in starched gingham communities of effort, eventually collapse from neglect. Villages and towns the world over, constructed as seemingly solid as stone, are soon enough settled; however, they eventually decay from their venerable centers outward whenever the world moves on.

"If you cannot conceive of our own extinction, you need only look to the ancient Greek and Roman cities of exquisite granite and marble that once dotted the periphery of the Mediterranean Sea. Centuries before our acquisitive archaeologists began nosing around their Classical remains, these abandoned localities welcomed the migrations of sand and weeds instead of people. A harbor may have silted up, the trade routes may have altered, and the people had moved on.

"You already know that each generation's preoccupation is the next generation's disregard since so much requires attentive rebuilding or reinvention, cyclically testing the renewable energies of humankind that certainly reach limits from time to time. We need to remind each new wave of our offspring of these profound limitations to human habitation all over the world.

"Someday, although we rarely admit this, even to ourselves, we shall, no doubt, lose our lease upon this sacred property, perhaps to another species that crawls up from the crevasses of the earth that we can no longer reach and patch over. If not from our own soil or solar system, competitors could arise quite possibly from the intriguing stars beyond, when a new method that we cannot cope with could seize our veritable souls and scatter what bones of us remain behind, dry as the intricate framework of the buffalo that we once slaughtered and left here to die, to make a place for the cattle that the cowboys pushed onward into Wyoming.

"This is the only life that they knew, those cowboys who rode this range, the only existence that they could conceive of carrying out upon this stubborn topography. Why would they have imagined the future to be significantly different? Why should the wooden wagons that they drove have been entirely replaced by iron trains that railed settlers faster into the frontier and then beyond, from up-to-date St. Louis and even newer Kansas City? Nothing could likely have been any more amazing than the cities they already saw existing in the East, and yet all of that pales when compared to what we have recently accomplished all across the North American continent.

"Historians no longer speculate that the closing of the frontier had a profound effect upon the American psyche. A cowboy in the 1800's would probably have found it hard to believe that human beings could ever fill up this great prairie as he reigned his horse to urge a stray dogie back into a moving herd, bound for the sunset just over the horizon.

"Yet every forward momentum of humanity is really a retreat from one locale to another, as we continue to segue, even in Colorado, from buffalo chips to cow chips, and then to computer chips, fueling the creation of a newer range that no one could have imagined a century ago, as cyberspace, in its turn, supplants this vast and tangible landscape."

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