Pratt starts with a simple picture: soft hills, sagebrush, cedar, and cottonwoods growing in the gullies beside a slick green creek. Then, in the second stanza, the poem steps back and makes a surprising claim. This is "the kind of land we came from," the sort of place our distant ancestors knew when they climbed down from the trees. The speaker isn't just admiring a view. She is suggesting that something in us recognizes it.
The rest of the poem lists what makes the place feel right: water, plants, animals to hunt, a "long look with no surprises." Those last words are telling, since safety here means being able to see far and trust what you see. The final lines, "Places to watch and places to hide. / Stars to tell the way," bring together shelter and direction. The mood is calm, quietly awed, and a little ancient. The short, plain lines feel unhurried, like someone standing still and simply taking it in.