Bison

by John Grey

When the tour guide says the word “bison”, my attention is

elsewhere, far from this tiny fenced-in group to the great plains

of two centuries ago and the rollicking, roaming millions of these

beasts. That a few poor creatures are protected, saved, available

for the viewing pleasure of generations to come, somehow fails

to power up my heart to double its normal rate. The herds would

do that. But there are no herds. Just farms as far as the eyes can see

and all other senses can ignore. Then hunters enter my picture.

My head is an explosion of firepower and creatures crumbling

to the ground, a mid-west of grasslands turned into the most

pathetic and desolate of morning after battlefields. And

now a busload of tourists gather around the offspring of the few

that the rifle bullets somehow missed. Eight glass-eyed heavy-

shouldered ungulates take turns looking up from their grazing

to wonder why these odd strange creatures take the time to stare.

I can tell them why. Because the guide said the word “bison”.

Not “trailer park.” Not “billboard.” Not “silo.” Not “grain.”

And he didn’t use the words “remnants of the once mighty

numberless herds.” “Bison” was enough. The tour group snapped

their pictures, oohed and aahed, They all got what they paid for.