As a foreigner to this place,
I walk with measured feet, leaving
the smallest footprint engrained
upon the brown crust, laced with snow.
The whir of the car engine halts,
and I wait as other vehicles whiz by
one after another. At last, movement
and color, texture and
life. My camera clicks
clicks, clicks. I squeal with glee
for photo conquered — the scalp
on my belt: the wild buffalo.
I fill this space with gadgets and
sounds — the toys of my world.
Sitting in silence in this outdoor
cathedral, I feel almost reverent
relishing the slice of life set before me.
The bison alone upon the roughed
mountain plain moving to the rhythms of
survival. Stark against modern society,
he plods up the tattered pathways,
the wind songs gust in seasonal solo,
ancient melody rising from dust to dust.
~ Bonnie Saul Wilks
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