The buffalo are gone
And those who saw the Buffalo are gone~ Carl Sandburg
I.
The sun rose and spread her
long fingers of light onto
the grasses and great plains
of Custer State Park. Over twenty-thousand
tourists are herded to parking areas
where we line up on both shoulders
of the valley to witness twelve-hundred buffalo
race through the grasslands, kick up
muck, feel their weight pound
the earth beneath us.
II.
When the buffalo come down
through the valley, they shuffle
like cows going to slaughter.
We are told it is too warm
and the park service
doesn’t want to run them, stress them out. Still,
it is a sight to see—all these tame
buffalo being ushered—
followed by American flags waving,
cowboys on horses hollering, UTV’s,
pick-up trucks roaring and
the South Dakota governor on horseback.
III.
Afterwards, in the jammed-up parking lot
of the human round-up, we sit on tailgates
for over two hours and people watch. I
am feeling grateful we didn’t kill
all of the buffalo, Yet, I can’t shake
that image of an old photograph: Proud white men
standing next to and on top of thousands
of piled up buffalo skulls. I sit with it:
The beauty and the outrage.
My blood memory carries carnage
and guilt. I pretend I’m a buffalo
with heavy, humped shoulders
and try to bear the weight of it all.
IV.
As we slowly make our way out
of the park, passing by large rock
formations, yellow aspen
and ponderosa pine, I spot an old bull
not far off the road. Good for him,
he refused to be rounded up. He is grazing
next to the wallows, tall grasses
and prairie dog kingdoms.
Majestic horned beast, with your scrappy,
peeling coat, I see you.
Old veteran in a half-way house, I see you.
He lifts his head up and I am so close, so close.
He stands sideways, glances briefly,
just long enough,
that I am overcome by the power,
the force, the energy
of seeing that brown, glassy ocean
of one dark eye
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