Bison: dozens.
Rumbling moans.
They graze on brown
grasses and snort and low
as travelers in cars point, openmouthed,
frozen on the road—
as if dropped into a painting
from two hundred years ago.
Muffled thumps.
Brown dust kicked up
by a rolling bull and calf
soften the distance,
halo the parked truck’s
fog lamps, as insect
clicks drift across the meadow
in the haze of dusk.
Soon, a glimpse of the Teewinot
Teton tops as they catch the last
hint of day will humble all beasts
who remain, fleeced or not.