Buffalo Caller, how still your ancient trade
how warped in soil your empty bones are laid,
although the silent hoofbeats pound yet upon the grass
as if the herds of centuries rolled past.
Once gone how soon you are forgot,
Like skulls a farmer turns, seeing not
A glory that was once, intent
On seams of rye in which his years are spent.
So might a Vandal in Perugian fields, surprised
By bones of antique columns, have surmised
That rainwater had carved them, and thus his race
In unversed assurance all memory erase.
So do we exhume you, and the beast
Who was your prayer, prey, and feast.
© Mike Bond 2012
First published by Montana Poetry Society
