![]() ![]() ![]() Tears ran over his cheeks and down his throat anyway, wetting his shoulders, for the sound gathered power until everyone was lost in the immensity. No one knew what the sound meant, except that one old, toughened hunter sucked his breath in when he heard it, and as the sound increased, he attempted not to cry out. It was then that the sun's zenith, the light shredded by scarves of moving insects, that the buffalo began to make a sound. Even through the night the buffalo stayed and were seen by the uneasy hunters and their families the next dawn to have remained standing quietly, as though mourning, the relatives that lay before them skinned. The surviving buffalo milled at the outskirts of the carnage, not grazing but watching with an insane intensity as one by one, swiftly and painstakingly, each carcass was dismantled. ![]() During that hunt, the rest of the herd did not bolt away, but behaved afterward in a chilling fashion. "If you know about the buffalo hunts, you perhaps know that the one I describe now many generations passed, was one of the last. This piece is inspired by an old hunter's diary, and what the buffalo actually do is, from a piece of research, it's the truth, it's not magical, it's realism. ![]()
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