A bison finding his path
In a crowd
Doesn't pass unnoticed.

Slowly, blood pouring from his wounds,
Harpoons are tilting from his back.

Eyes on the ground,
It avoids meeting others,
Impossible finding repair.

Children come close,
Inspecting the wounds, touching,
Pulling, twisting the sticks,
Pouring blood on their hands.

Make space, clear the road,
They push him, side to side,
Fingers drawing lines on the ground,
Red trees, mountains, and fellow beasts,
In pain, relinquish what it is.


© The Wrench Poetry