When Treatment Isn’t Enough

The September afternoon is bright green & the fires

that so often ravage these parts are damped & gone,

leaving only rolling, undulating hills washed in yellow greens

& blue greens & occasionally over the second ridge,

a solitary oak tree, bark chipped from buffalo hides.

I left my family to come here because I'm trying to

stay alive. I shift the car into neutral & roll quietly,

unobtrusively, toward the herd, which ripples & swells

like little bluestem in the breeze, a cool breeze

that comes down from the north where it is already winter

& offers a whiff of the coming season to the buffalo who,

I suppose, take note as it grazes their coats.

They don't mind me settling in here, rolling down the windows

to watch unobstructed their yearling calves romp & roll

in soft dirt, the cow buffalo grazing & keeping watch of the babies,

the hulls off somewhere else, perhaps by the stream

under the oak tree & now one young male throws

his head & grunts, ambles toward the car & proceeds to scratch

his shoulder on the hood, showing off his courage.

I unwrap the scarf from my head & let the breeze wash over

my scalp. These beasts have offered me sanctuary

so many times, I sometimes feel as though I speak

with them, as if I see my own reflection in the black pools

of their eyes, as if, when they look up from the grass

& catch my gaze, they are saying to me, welcome,

you're home now, you're one of us.

I have felt this my whole life, this generosity,

these well wishes from the wild herd.

I'm not here for new prayers;

only to rest among the old.

Source: A Dangerous Place (Sarabande Books, Inc., 2021)