IN THE BUNKHOUSE WITH RED STEAGALL

The Last Buffalo

I sit at my desk and occasionally glance

At a buffalo skull on the wall

Was painted by a Hidatsa medicine man

If the ancient skull could talk at all.

He might tell me tales of the great grassy sea

On the bountiful Panhandle Plains

Or remember the nights ’neath a Montana sky

Or the cold of the Wind River rains.

Or he