The Buffalo Rub Rock

Surrounded by coneflowers, Indian grass and lead plant,

alone on this tiny prairie island, sits the buffalo rub rock.

 

Once, bison, great and shaggy masters of this place

rocked back and forth against this mighty stone

beneath the prairie sky; their bodies rubbing it smooth.

 

Now it sits, visited only by meadowlarks, dragonflies, jackrabbits

and wind.

It sits, remembering the approaching thunder of a herd

now turned to dust.

 

It shall remember.

Remember thimbleweed, prairie clover,

skeletonweed and holy white sage.

Remember a people whose only mark on this place

were circles of smaller stones that once held down their lodges,

before the Destroyers came.

 

It shall remember;

and when the time comes again

and the Destroyers’ shadow has passed,

it will sing back the prairie.

Sing back the big and little bluestem,

prairie dogbane, pasture thistle and earthstar fungi.

Sing back the dancing people, feathers in their hands,

and sing back the sacred thunder

of the buffalo.

Brigit Zent  1996