The Suburban Buffalo

He lies alone, his wolly head giant and still, bulked up behind the white slab fence near moving, pastel cars, far across the field from three casually grazing horses, grouped together. His dark still muzzle holds steady near new grass. There is no mistaking the way those upward curving horns sweep out of the head with purpose, recurve before the tip. This hooded Lear has something on his mind, and those four-wheeled suburbanites fear to remove him utterly, fear what would have vanished would have been themselves, in part, their own great woolly heads, their urgent horns arced upward, cerebral morning minarets from which are uttered soundless prayers to strangeness, roadless wandering, some expiations for brick, chrome, and steel.

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