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He
crouches behind the camouflage,
watching - waiting - quiet - still,
just one of many,
all eyes on the horizon,
hearts pounding - expectant - eager -
patient.
First
there appears the thin line of dust,
then distant thunder,
growing louder and louder,
until the ground trembles
with the pounding of a million hooves.
The
hunters are visible now,
and the bison are panicked,
but it's too late.
They try
to flee,
but are squeezed from both sides,
a narrow funnel forming up ahead.
They quicken their pace,
and then see the cliff.
Hooves
dig into the hard earth,
eyes roll in fear,
mouths froth.
There's no stopping now.
Those in front are pushed by the weight
of the mass behind,
and flung over the edge.
Tortured
screams fill the air,
below, only the dull sound of soft bodies,
thud - thud - thud.
Time, suspended, frozen,
finally merges with eternity.
The
hunters look on in haunted silence,
The spirits of the bison have been released.
They have sacrificed for the people,
and the people are grateful.
by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
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