what comes of this

I walk out from the garden, wanting to be among the buffalo. My feet find an easy path and I follow it up a small rise to a gnarled old tree. The herd is before me, lingering at the shore of a small black lake. They’ve mucked up the shoreline with their hooves. Buffalo Man comes to stand with me. We watch awhile. Swallows rise and fall over the grasses. The quiet noises of the herd make good company. “This is good,” I say.


“It doesn’t matter, does it? What I make of this. It is good of itself. It’s good just to be here.”

“What comes of this,” he says, “you wear in your face, wherever you go. A blessing to anyone you meet.”


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