The Bison Grazing - Em Pollicino

The land is changing 

under my cloven hooves 

I throw myself against the ever shrinking land, 

My behemoth flesh feels the weight of the earth shift under my tough hide, My flesh craves the scratch of the grass and dirt, 

Itches I can't quite reach. 

A mechanical beast cries in the background; 

My hot breath clouds around my horned head, causing a shake that ripples my entire spine, 

Large eyelashes bat away the shining sun, allowing me to see 

The screaming creature that makes me feel miniscule against the 

Bleeding landscape I graze, 

as my brother and sisters are disappearing around me, 

Where has my herd gone? 

Questions unanswered unless I find their lifeless forms; 

uneaten, untouched, rotten to the vultures, coyotes and flies, 

The victims of that squealing unknown.

We were honored once, 

every part used of our never ending bodies 

even our thick bones, curved horns, and shedding fur 

our soul was still preserved within the realm of the living; 

I could feel our ancestors breath in the winds of the plains. 

Until the stench came that soiled. 

stench that burns my dripping nostrils, 

the revolting aroma leaking from the intruders on the land. 

Until explosions from the bushes came, 

taking my children with great bursts of fear, 

dropping my herd before we could even run. 

I can only watch in silence, 

as the bodies pile up and the sickly laughter of the pale faces hum 

Soulless eyes and burnt out fire pits, 

Torn tipis made from my welcoming flesh, 

Effigies of myself, clutched by tiny human palms, 

I still sniff their cold skin with my wet nose; slicked with the scent of gunpowder and the machine. 

My flesh

My soul 

Is stolen with the land. 

Our calls are now 

The railroad bells. 

Where have we all gone?