Into Hiding

I want to go where the buffalo have gone,

into hiding.

 

They have gone down through shallow valleys,

one at a time, slowly, at evening;

stumbling peacefully downhill with dusty shoulders.

 

They have gone down into the hot cities,

sauntering along late night streets,

under the buzzing neon, reflected in dark storefronts;

scattered, benign, calm.

 

I want to drink with them

from the tributaries of great red western rivers;

from drying seeps under dark-streaked cliffs;

from oily gutters at exhausted truck stops;

from coughing sprinklers on idle golf courses.

 

I want to follow their unremitting tracks

quietly through the downtown streets before dawn;

quietly through the backyards of absent families;

quietly in the rear-view mirrors of the distant cars,

never looking back.