The little dark dots in the middle up above are a small group of bison, a universal presence in this part of the park.
When they noticed me from a distance, they wearily looked at me and moved on, maybe realizing that I was no threat.
During the day, the slowly walk on their tracks alone and in small groups, and pause to graze even more slowly, as if every blade of grass counts.
Their tracks crisscross the landscape like songlines, having a purpose of direction, but also a purpose of protection:
This way, the fragile ground is left unharmed.
Their entire existence seems to be an enormous effort of irrigation, eating only what they need, and fertilizing the arid places on the way.
Indeed, every blade of grass counts, like everywhere else.
At night, they gather as a larger herd, greeting each other, and telling about their dreams in eldritch voices.
I didn’t have a telephoto lens with me, but in the above photo is a small region with maybe a hundred little black bison dots.
So they write on this landscape as if it was an enormous palimpsest, being alive.
The Inner Frame 