This one was a photo . . .
Many of the seasoned Writers in the Group believe these Photos are posted by beginner Writers, ones not certain “how” to start a story . . . and while I normally don’t do these, this photo intrigued me.
Ancient Indian Wives Tales tell of the Great Bison in the frigid early morning mist at the mouth of the Great River . . . .
I couldn’t fathom it; I had to experience it for myself. I was worried I wouldn’t reach the place to view this spectacular event, described in stories passed down upon the generations, in time to see it.
I stood, for what seemed like a lifetime . . . finally convincing myself it was a fairytale passed on so many times, the breadth and height of the bison grew with each telling [similar to the child’s game Telephone].
Shivering, convinced it truly was just an old wives tale, I turned to leave and as I did my body started shaking; the Earth I stood upon was rumbling, the snort was like nothing I’d ever heard before. Whipping my body around, there it stood in the early morning mist hovering over the mouth of the Great River, something clinging to it back, though difficult to make out . . . as it grew closer, sadness overtook me.
Perched upon its back were the woodlands we’d all heard about, those gorgeous woodlands, chopped, to make way for generations of building till the woodlands were extinct.
The sight was as breathless as the chilling mist; I stood frozen in my tracks as the Great Bison moved through me, within me, then disappeared with the thunder of a hundred hooves upon the land many, many moons ago.
// JA 01-30-22