An Ode to South Dakota’s Infinite Beauty

In this stunning collaboration between award-winning father/son duo John and Byron Banasiak, you're invited to follow a dreamy poem as it turns with the winds from the west, soaring through pine-filled valleys, buffalo-kicked dust and the winding roads that lead through evergreen landscapes and pink-rock passes.

Born and raised in Chicago, John Banasiak discovered his love of photography shortly after starting college at the Art Institute of Chicago. It would eventually lead him to Vermillion, South Dakota, where he has taught photography at the University of South Dakota since 1980.

Throughout his distinguished career, John’s adopted state has inspired not only images, but words; he collaborated with his son, filmmaker Byron Banasiak, to bring to life his “Dakota Poem” — an ode to the beauty, history and infinite variety of South Dakota. Watch the video below and see a few photos of South Dakota's beauty.

"Dakota" by John Banasiak

There was a dream that flew with a wind from the
north

above the tall grass prairies and below the blue of
endless sky

Splashed along the misted rivers and
through the fur of migrant herds

with birds in flocks who
pull the warm from the south
and the chill from the north

There was a dream that spun in a breeze from the
east

rolling through the fields of wild grain

above the gaze of sunflowers that followed the summer days to the
west

catching the diamond sparkles of mid-day and
rubies of sunset

scattered off the shivered skin of the
Missouri

There flew a dream with the summer wind
its breath warmed with the smell of the southern plains
wildflowers and hay

apples in moonlight

and the incense of campfires that rose in sparks to the stars and constellations of midsummer

Free flight over the flatlands
the wind played the canyons of the Badlands and
the old abandoned cabins like harmonicas

old dust bowl songs hidden between the walls
through the cottonwood and red willows

the soft echo of Native voices
carried into the west above the Black Hills

pulled by the galaxies above the center of the world
and the middle of night

The dream turned with the wind from the west
through the pines and flowered valleys
in the dust kicked
up by the buffalo

The dream soared in a breeze out of
the west
along the winding roads
through evergreen
and pink rock passes

along the trails of Native tribes
and the ghosts of abandoned rails

in steam whistles that still haunt the spirits of miners
whose voices echo in the dark of mountain tunnels

The spinning dream
that has danced with the winds
that have pulled together the beauty of this place
looked down across the land
and called itself

Dakota.