Timid
The buffalo,
Left still shaken from the day.
Recently came in a
A stampede of rifles in boots,
Tattered clothes of imprint red, white, and blue.


Smug covered
Vicious eyes
Gold buttons of their threads
Reflect sun to interweave them through the dark of the forest.


They kill, stab, shoot,
In a matter of minutes,
In a matter of steps
To find a huge array of the enemy.


What’s left in the quiet eye of the buffalo
Peaking through the leaves,
Are the footprints in mud slaying the buffalo’s path


Emerge, the timid buffalo
The gentle big furry animals peer out as the ferocious beasts in boots and tattered colors pass,
For they have their own battle today.
A second tempest arrives soon.
Not a in the smoke of gunpowder or in the frost of commands,
But in the harsh and vile winds that carry water
Dampening the buffalo’s day.