Sometimes this is my morning view.
The Buffalo, who mostly ignores me, stands tall with his head held high.
It’s like he knows he is a rose among thorns. If cattle were thorns, that is. Which they’re not of course. But the Buffalo stands out, nonetheless.
I get the sense his understanding of his heritage goes beyond the horns and faraway eyes, as if he’s aware that not that long ago his kind were driven off cliffs to be eaten and worn.
A couple hundred years later, he’s on a farm in South Dakota in a pen with the bulls.
I haven’t even tried to drive him off any cliffs yet.
Either way, he’s a pretty amazing creature.
Not a bad view from the window I’d say.