Born from lush fields of clover and grama grass,

from windswept plains and glaciers’ tears,

under a canopy of stars sprinkled like firelight across the sky.

Guardian of wisdom,

sacred steward of the plains.

Lifegiver.

Standing dignified 

over endless fields of gold,

wild and free.

The sound of hooves rolling like distant thunder; 

a river of shaggy pelts

flowing toward the blue yonder.

Flash flood roaring through

a red-rimmed canyon;

avalanche tumbling down 

a snow-clad peak;

fire ripping through

a parched forest;

spilling out over the horizon

after scents of green. 

Song of the prairie:

the drumbeat of hooves 

on dry earth.

Rising and falling over the land

as it inhales and exhales,

through ravines

and over bluffs,

an organism

millions strong

on a grand scale--

that of the mountains,

plains

and sky.

The prairie is moving,

rumbling,

groaning.

Alive.

A rifle cracks.

The bison staggers in the settlers’ wake.

Earth holds its breath, 

bereaved, 

for as the bison falls, 

so does the grizzly, the wolf, the Comanche,

tearing a whole

in a tapestry whose edges are already frayed.

The bison lies baking on the empty plains,

until only a jumble of bones remains.

Its bleached skeleton

hints at a place

of solitude and grandeur,

lost. 

A land deprived.

Desolate.

Silent.

The prairie waits patiently

for its return.