THE DYING AUROCH

By John Herlihy

The Russian Steppe extended far, its grasses thin,

The mountains of the moon never looked so grim.

The massive white bison stood as still as a statue,

Alone, far from the herd, without a reason to moo.

The massive horns adorn the head in stately profile;

A shaggy chestnut coat covers its back in high style.

The face droops as muscle under the skin quivers;

The feathered arrow buried deep within its withers.

Nobility lies in a death that doesn’t know it is dying;

Surrender to fate lies in a stillness, faintly sighing.

Now extinct but once numbered among noble steed;

The dying auroch the very last one of a noble breed.

Amid a pile of boulders, the creature evokes heraldry;

An enduring image of nobility and grace for posterity.