Bison moseyed nonchalantly huge

among our tents, hushing with awe,

on their way down to the Yellowstone

to drink in saffron, morning light.

The kids, dumbstruck, pointed in glee

as one mountainous beast halted

and glared; signing with oracle eyes:

“Today I will be your token beast.

Tomorrow you will be mine; locked

in amber, stone and layered time.

 

I will hoove your useless remains;

eating grasses from cranial urns 

recalling nothing of your holocaust.”

Can beast, once a coveted commodity

slaughtered for trophy, flesh or skin,

mimic disdain? I know I saw it there.

Guilt mandates we heap self-accolades

for our forbearance against a token few

free, yet still, goods for our pleasure.

Will we be allotted a token few to roam?