Treasure

Quietly,

You sit.

The orange bison arrives
Across the cave wall

Of your spacious mind

Shimmering

Like ancient amber
In November mist,

Heading towards the bone-dry
Continents’ edge, like you,

Nose to ground beyond
These sky-high flames,

Beyond images
Embedded in memory

Of those sacred days
Where ferns and fields
Danced in tumbling rain,

Searching searching

Searching for water,

And then,

That thirst-slaked herd
Aching for release

Rumbles like a thunderstorm
Over the grassy plain.