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Bison, or...?
By
Rusty Broadspear
Ground temperature was cold but there was a powerful morning Sun.
As I looked out my window, at the top of the rise, I saw a heat haze.
Unusual for this time of year, so much movement, in this distortion.
I sensed in the ether, this was going to be one of those magical days.
Buckling, bending, warping time, images grew tall, then wide, then small.
Nothing moves over the ridge this early in the day, until, of course, today.
Standing closer to the window for a clearer view - was it a herd of Bison?
Temporarily distracted to my computer screen - had the beasts come back to play?
Colours on screen turned blue to red, while the miasma on the ridge just grew.
The colour change - what did it mean? And just what was headed my way?
Opening the window I heard a pounding, in tempo with my thumping heart.
The Bison are back to reclaim their ground - time to pray and be ready to pay.
Closer now, frantic riders on frenzied creatures, wild eyed with the chase.
My cyber friend has left me, I'm cold, scared of this assault, from over the ridge.
I sense him, we stand firm together - holding - charging enormous power,
And the Bison disappear - replaced by runners, joggers, heading mindlessly for the bridge.
We play a mind game of ten pin bowling, laughing when the joggers fall,
When our eyes in our invisibility meet - enchantingly sweet - and tender.
As the joggers absurdly stumble, we fumble for so many reasons why
We have been given these feelings of such magnificent splendour.
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