Misting Herd

The farther north we pushed into the Yukon, the more often I heard the same uneasy story. The herd had not been seen all season, and nobody could say where they had gone. So it was not the bison that were found that morning. It was me. Fog was lifting off the meadow when the lead bull stepped out of the trees, and behind him came the rest, one shape at a time, until the whole clearing was moving. I climbed onto the roof of the truck and sat up there alone while they crossed, and went in among the far trees, and were gone as completely as they had come.