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Buffalo Crossing
Michael Escoubas

I sit atop this butte
binoculars deployed
as the buffalo
cross the cold blue
stream headed where
they need to go through
orange sage, half-green
hills, the queue belly high,
spittle dripping from wet
mouths, calves wade
close to their cows.

Their lonely trek
made as winter wanes‐
what tells them it's time
to cross into spring's lush green‐
would that my own
life-crossings resemble these.


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