Buffalo

by Lance Larsen

In a fenced field outside of Price

I saw my first buffalo.

Horned, humped, and shaggy warm,

he sat in the snow, his legs curled under like a lamb’s.

He turned his bearded head

and watched through wire as I passed,

his slow eyes following me

from post to post.

I saw something of the aged scholar in that face,

of one who had dredged up the past

from reading too many books—

he looked tired.

Where was the snorting, pawing, two-ton beast

I knew from spaghetti westerns?

I yelled, but he didn’t explode

into hoof and horn and frenzied eye—

he didn’t even blink.

Then a rancher chugged up on his tractor to unload fodder.

My buffalo friend lumbered up,

and on lank legs, trotted

to where six spotted jerseys mooed for hay.

I left him munching with the cows

and walked up the road alone,

saddened at fenced prairies and broken buffalo,

saddened at having followed my own mediocre crowd.

Photo by Katherine Gossett

Photo by Tracy Jones

Photo by Ned James

Illustrated by Chris Diener

Photo by Katherine Gossett