Long ago, we walked the wide plains,
We drank from the rivers and lakes,
We foraged, and pressed our way through the woods,
And we died, and returned to the earth.
There were many others,
Creatures great and small,
Cunning and cruel,
Peaceful and soft.
There was even man,
He watched us like the birds,
He hunted us like the wolf,
He lived in our shared world.
In all things, there lives a song,
The song of their lives,
And in all their songs was a piece of love, just for us.
And in our song, they each had a piece of love as well.
Even the wolf,
Even the man.
Then came the great destroyer,
The plight that ravaged our world,
And silenced many songs,
Without a song of its own.
Civilization, it is called.
But it is not civil,
It makes much noise,
But sings no song
Many things died under its relentless march,
Many bodies left on the ground,
Stripped of their skins,
And of their songs.
Some survived, and walk the land still,
Some believe many more ran into the mountain,
Waiting for the world to be ready to hear,
Waiting to bring their song back.
Some have gone to where the blight can’t see them,
Into the realm of spirit,
Finding souls who hear, and sing for all they know.
You can see them if you know how to look,
Gentle and strong, Patient and kind,
They bow to help carry your burdens,
Pushing ever forward, head down and shoulders broad.
With those, the buffalo still walks the earth free,
And they still sing,
Some quiet, some loud,
A song that loves all things
A song that loves you.
I know this to be true,
For I am a buffalo man.
What is that tiny buffalo? 