By Lydia Abigail Metzger
Splashing and thundering
Troops of bison
Dance their heavy dances
On their own, trail,
the river stays ever rambunctious
under many hundreds of mighty
hooves.
Young, those tawny cows
That frolic so triumphantly,
they leap as if they have won a war,
a victory,
songs of jubilee rise from the
fierce noise
of mass movement over
rolling plains.
Noticing the gray blue mountains,
and here a truth is realized,
they are owned by this army
and its allies,
and its enemies,
but not by us.
Grazing on the slopes,
they look as if to say
a million things,
but not to us.
There is purpose in bison parades.
The Howl 