Don Wildman

The sun is lifting over the prairie as the wagons begin to move.

Canvas tops catch the early light.

Dew clings to the grasses.

Oxen snort, leaning into their yokes.

Leather creaking.

Wood groaning under the weight of wagon, passengers, and possessions.

The entirety of what each family owns.

Most adults walk at this point of the day.

Riding wastes the animals.

A woman grips her shawl against the morning chill, her dress already dust-stained.

A man tightens a loose bolt on a wheel, another checks the oxen's gimpy hoof.

Gradually, the wagons jockey onto the trail in a long, uneven line, stretching forward to the horizon, towards nothing but grass and sky.

Behind them, exactly the same.

By mid-morning, the sun burns hot.

With every step and turn of the wheels, dust rises into a cloud, settling into mouths and eyes.

Children complain.

Mothers softly hush them.

Near noon, they pause by a creek for water to be collected, brown though it is.

Hard bread is broken and passed along.

No one lingers, noting the clouds gathered in the distant sky and the low, ominous thunder.