Out the Window near Pierre, South Dakota

A poem

Photo by Brian Miller on Unsplash

On the hillside,
crowded under
tufts of cloud shadow,
buffalo feed
on one particular
shoulder of land.

I must know what is there,
what holy low drawn
creature of the stars sunk
from the bottom of the night
to wallow in that sacred space?

Or, perhaps it is the camp
of those horizon people
who stitch together the
wavering and triumphant
line of earth and sky.

Deep in the green
of the grass on that hillside
may be an answer — or
it might be a grassy hillside
under a banner of unruly clouds
where bison — holy bison —
gather to eat.