American Bison — One Hoof in the Stars

American Bison — One Hoof in the Stars

You find the medallion half-sunken in a sun-drenched field—no trail, no plaque, just warm wind and the distant hum of bees. You brush the grass aside and touch the bronze.

“Whoa… that tickled.”

You spin around.

There, half-hidden in a patch of thistle and clover, stands a mountain of fluff and muscle. A bison. Huge and still, except for the slow blink of his eyes and the laziest tail-swish you’ve ever seen.

“Hey there, little wanderer,” he says. “Took you long enough. I was almost—hmm. Never mind. Lost it again.”

You blink up at him.

“I’m the last of me in these parts,” he says. “Came from the east. Just walked and walked, thinking deep thoughts—like, do clouds have cousins?—and somehow ended up here. Good grass. Not too cold. Vibes are solid.”

You ask him about the medallions—where he thinks they came from.

“Oh yeah, those,” he says, perking up. “So! Okay. My theory—and I’ve had time to really chew on this, figuratively and literally—is they’re memory seeds. Ancient ones. Planted by sky bison. Or future bison. Or possibly the moon. You touch one, and boom—your brain sprouts ears. Not real ears. Listening ears. Get it?”

He chuckles, pleased with himself. “Told that one to a raccoon once. He stole my lunch.”

Then his tone softens and his eyes sparkle. “You met the pika yet? Whew. That little fuzzball? She’s got more spark than a thunderstorm in a tumble dryer. So smart. So fast. So… cute.”

He lowers his voice. “But don’t tell her I said that. She hates being called cute. I said it once and she threw a pinecone at me.”

The wind rolls across the field.

He looks at you, slower now. “You got the look of someone who walks for the joy of it,” he says. “That’s rare, these days.”

Then, as if remembering something urgent, he lumbers away, humming tunelessly and leaving a trail of burrs, conspiracy theories, and lovesick daydreams in his wake.