The Wild Plains Were His Home

The giant bison snorted in the early morning mist, shaking his heavy head from side to side. Autumn was deep on the plains, having turned most of the grasslands to dry gold. As far as his eyes and memory could see were the plains of his life. The old bull could not count the years of his life only its seasons. That he was old there was no doubt. His hide bore the scars of many battles and the mishaps of a long life. Scars from the horns of his rivals; clawmarks of the grizzly; and gun and arrow wounds from creatures he did not understand.

Of the seasons he knew that winter, with its snow and frozen rivers, would give way to sunshine and tender spring grasses. Summer would follow with heat and wildflowers and days of grazing. The winds of autumn always brought falling leaves, drying grasses and lowering temperatures promising again frost and the entrance of winter.

It was a cycle he knew well.

He was alone now in this wide expanse of prairie. In days gone past he'd been a bull among many, vying for his place in the herd. The herd had been massive, many hundreds of thousands. Then there had been many other young bulls to fight for dominance. He'd been in many fights, some he lost, some he won. He was a father many times over. But his pride was the herd. In time he became leader of the herd, then one of the elders.

When the herd ran across the plains, it was as though thunder let loose from the ground. Sometimes they ran because a grizzly bear was worrying the eastern edges of their territory. A big grizzly could take down a full grown bull.

Other times they ran because the wolf packs were darting in during calving season to steal their young. There were also mountain lions and the small coyotes that would worry the herd. Always the herd needed protection.

And sometimes they ran because they could.

The old one remembered a winter that had not been as cold as it should have been. The herd elders passed on the lore of seasons and had been nervous that winter. The path across the river to the winter feeding ground was usually frozen so solid that the entire herd could cross. But that winter the river didn't freeze hard. But the young bulls refused to heed the warnings of the elders and led a full third of the herd to the river. The ice gave way and thousands were lost. Hundreds more died of hunger for not being able to reach the winter feeding ground. The predators grew fat that winter.

The old bison raised his massive head and sniffed the air. There was still green grass on the plains and he began to roam. Such an empty land. The herd had dwindled until now he was alone.

He remembered in the old times when the two-legged predators that were not bears, like the other predators, hunted and slaughtered, cutting down the herd's numbers.

And there were the other strange predators who brought the loud black creatures they dragged over the plains that belched a noxious cloud as they moved over metal tracks that smashed down the grasses.

One autumn one of the metal monsters moved through the plains and sparked a wildfire the likes of which his kind had never before experienced. Grasslands were not immune to wildfire, most caused by dry lightning, but this was different. The only place of safety was the river but at 2,000 pounds, the mature bulls could not cross and drowned. Many were lost.

The old bull snorted again and headed off to find green grass. Images of long ago served no purpose in this day of grazing. What was, was. He was content to finish his days roaming his beloved grasslands.