Haiku for the Bison of the Great Plains
Thunder in the grass—
Earth remembers how to breathe,
Hooves drum dawn awake.
Wind through sacred mane,
Ghost herds stir beneath...
I do not remember a beginning, for my memory is not stored in the soft pulp of a single brain but is etched in the frost of the mountainside, in the marrow of my ancestors, and in the silver disc of the moon that calls me to wakefulness.