Ruby Hansen Murray | The Bison on the Move

Sunday, I drove to the little church at Stella,
since they were planning to protest for peace.
We were going to stand along the highway
by Germany Creek holding signs. I left early,
looking forward to being in the deep forest  
around the little church up in the firs. The road 
winds along the bank of the Columbia, lures
people into the country, certain they’ve found
paradise—the great swath of moon glade, before
they experience months of rain, the lives the road 
claims each year. At Eagle Cliff, I noticed the bison
behind me. His great bushy head in the rear view. 
He had been running, slowed to a trot while I stared. 
There was nowhere to stop, and we were close to the turn, 
so I drove on, thinking he was safe if he stayed behind me.
I wondered if I’d get a ticket for loose livestock, bison 
out of control. The scanner often reported cows on the road.
I turned off by Abernathy Creek. What are you doing here?
I asked. The bison was quiet: he was becoming more devoted,
I could sense that. We could go home via Beaver Creek,
an untraveled road that ran through evergreens above the river.




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