Scouting the Great Plains for buffalo,
he edges towards the horizon.

Five days or so from here,
the snow-covered peaks of the Medicine Bow.

No trace of the perspective grids
or charcoal sketches,

but the smell of prairie grass and fire,
embers from the prayer dance the night before.

Cumulus drift like signals
across the huge Midwestern sky,

where the artist moved over the curved wall
like a fly on the shoulder of this bull,

standing with the herd as they graze unaware
on the long, slow autumn.

Close enough now to kill,
but no hint of the armature so carefully shaped

from wood and wire and skeleton-parts,
no sign of the clay sculpture

or the papier mache model under the hide.
Just the scuff of hooves,

the frayed whips of the tails,
the pouch skin of the lips and nostrils -

every part re-used,
the Spirit gift to the tribe.

A missed step, a cracked stalk,
the glint of neon light in artificial eyes.