Buffalo

A poem to the symbol of America

Photo by Bryce olsen on Unsplash

The great mother
bellows, running from
the thunder that kills.
It started out strong,
healthy, fields for miles
of hope and life, balance.
Herds moving along golden fields
as if heaven would always be there.
Then came the fall.

Had one of them trusted the snake?
Took a bite from the apple,
and fled too late?
Had they found that forbidden tree
and lounged in its shade?

Then came the night the stars fell,
bringing the butchers, the riflemen
the hide hunters then brought only carnage.
Slowly, prairies that once
smelled of grain and dirt
Now, with the sulfur of gunpowder,
and rotting carcasses and breath of
Howling wolves.

Miles long, zig-zagging their way
To the empty horizon,
Where vultures creep
And deer stay clear
of empty hide lakes,
Prairies dogs in Nebraska,
chirp at the ghastly monument
of a death.