In the bowl between the mountains

where the buffalo graze

I hid a piece of myself

in the long, yellow grass

for you, or someone like you,

to find.

But the years passed—

my kind disappeared

and so did the buffalo.

The new folk had coarser sight.

Unseen, I watched their towns boom, flourish,

fade, vanish.

Still that piece of me lies

in the long, yellow grass

through snow and storm

waiting to be found

by someone with eyes

as sharp as yours.