Once upon a time, the powers-that-be determined that the immediate neighborhood of the old folks home wouldn't be mowed (you don't have to know where this happened), but that it would instead be tended and allowed to return to the prairie it once was. That's a process, and it's neither smooth nor pretty.
The old farmers in the rest home weren't at all pleased. For their whole lives they'd fought weeds the powers-that-be gave dominion right there in their own front yard, when any one of them on one of those sturdy John Deere mowers could create, single-handedly, a beautiful lawn. Made no sense.
A ranger here at the Monument told me that 15 years ago 0ne of the neighbors came in roaring mad about those damn sunflowers. There was nothing he could do. The government was committed to bringing back what was here for a million years.
I for one am so glad they were. A late afternoon sun out here in the native grasses is as sure as King Midas--everything turns to gold.
A gathering of monarchs were hanging around the Osage orange trees, readying for their mammoth journey, I suppose, or gathering as a committee to start determining itineraries. The air itself fluttered sweetly as they gave us leave to walk slowly among 'em, but not without a fuss.
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