The Last American Buffalo

An older one as I have nothing new to offer…

Bleached white bones;
the remains of our day in the sun.
Such is the carcass of hope.
Full-fleshed, it filled a far forever.
Hand fed it came to manhood,
till hobbled by compromise,
it settled for domestication
and promises of greener grass.
Years pass and pasture turns to dust.
Enough to have the sun upon our back
and tell tall tales to younger bulls,
of fields beyond the hill.
Soon comes the end of days.
We lie along our birth earth,
and watch our flaming sun
fall down the sky.