The Herd

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.