| Its been forty-five days since the snows have begun
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| I stare at the fire and long for the sun
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| As the bitter winds blow through the mouth of the pass
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| I sit here and dream of the Buffalo grass
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| The ponies are shaggy; |
| their coats have grown long
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| With heads down, they huddle together as one
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| At the window my breath forms a mist on the glass
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| As I patiently wait for the Buffalo grass
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| The Seasons still turn
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| And the prairies still yearn
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| For those who were here long ago
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| The Sioux have all gone and the Bison moved on
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| Soon, I will follow them home
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| Mollie passed in September and left me alone
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| Now my heart is as heavy and round as a stone
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| Too many years have gone by too fast
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| And I long for the feel of the Buffalo grass
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| The animals sleep while the world holds it’s breath
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| The woods are as still and as silent as death
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| When the mountain streams flow, spring will follow at last
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| And the wind will blow free through the Buffalo grass
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| The Seasons still turn
|
| And the prairies still yearn
|
| For those who were here long ago
|
| The Sioux have all gone and the Bison moved on
|
| Soon, I will follow them home
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| The geese will return, a symbol of change
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| The elk will be foraging out on the range
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| Once again nature’s palette will color the pass
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| And I will find peace in the Buffalo grass
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| Yes, I will find peace in the Buffalo grass |