Animal Poem

© john george hewitt
The mighty old bison, on hill does he stand,
black, glassy eyes, surveying the land.
Smoke-spewing nostrils, like dragon he breathes,
Pawing chilled grass, he bends and he feeds.
Covered in mantle, a king of his peers,
Scars are his glory, from arrows and spears.
For many have hunted, to feast on his bones,
Others have fallen- he stands alone.
From prairies to forests, he roams where he may,
He never gets lost, for he can’t go astray.
His slashing horns swing, as sabres of steel,
To ward off oppressors, to dampen their zeal.
His powerful limbs, deal jaw-crushing blows,
a worthy opponent, to all of his foes.
For many an age, his bellows rang clear,
the voice of the wild, through tumultuous years.
He’s now but a trophy, for man’s swollen pride,
Great head on a mantle, or rug from his hide.
He stands as a herald, a message of woe,
To those who’ve forgotten, to those who don’t know.
A great, wary beast, whose time is at hand,
He beckons our aid, to make final stand.

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