Brown humps on the hillside, the buffalo are laying down.
Scattered about, they pass their days feeding and dozing.
For years now, I’ve passed by them. A daily ritual of going and coming.
Sometime in the late spring the calf will appear, never wandering far from their mothers. Neither they, nor their ancestors, have known freedom for decades. If not centuries. Bred for their meat, they will grow, but never grow old.
The days of herds that ruled the planes are only memories, written down in books by people who themselves are long dead.
Does the memory of those days live on in these buffalo, passed down through the generations?
If it does, perhaps that is why they never run. Acutely aware of their captivity, they too mourn their past.
About the Creator
Katie
Really just an amateur trying my hand at this.
High Rise, Deep Impact
I have witnessed a death that I relive every time I step into an elevator. Although it no longer affects me as deeply—given that it's been 11 years since the incident—it remains a heart- rending memory from my first and last day as a paramedic. My initial call to the scene involved a man who seemed to have fallen down the elevator shaft of a high-rise building. Alternatively, it might have been that the elevator moved upwards while he was working on it. Different scenarios were being considered when I arrived.
By Penelope Henaina day ago in Writers
Comments (2)
The tone of hopelessness and defeat, threaded through with rebuke, is heavy in this piece. Well done!
Capacity inside this writing ❤️💯😉👍