In this former chemical manufacturing site,

A herd of bison roams in refuge now.

The foggy, distant city close somehow,

the dropping sun as mustard gas and napalm.

 

A lone bison walks in streams, miles from the rest—

the heavy fur, sinking hooves suspended

in winter water, splashing up, fluoresced.

He cries for siblings but lingers alone. 

 

The ginger-sky is hushed save for the gale.

Approaching darkness: cold, a crystal veil,

and he gallops after the herd, isn’t heard,

I become him, gone in fields like this one. 

 

In our ribcage, a choral hum—solace.

The sun sets behind our slow silhouettes.