Outside the ice wind whistles past graveyards piling snowdrifts against fences, a crematorium of angels. I was once in the Black Hills of South Dakota and saw a herd of Bison up close. Whereas a Deer or Elk or even a mighty Moose turns away from a winter storm, only the Bison faces the howl, fronts the storm. I wonder what the Bison hears, what the Bison sees. Once you’ve seen a Bison, you understand why he can lean into the smoke and ash of wind borne angels and not blink.

@ The Unbearable Bobness of Being