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We were driving through Yellowstone early one morning, winding our way around the steam vents and pine trees.
A soft mist covered the hills like a baby’s blanket. That’s when we saw our second bison.
The first had blocked a massive truck in the opposite lane, like some mythical crossing guard. We had no warning—only the frantic flashing headlights of the car behind alerted its presence before the face-to-face.
The bison? Unbothered. Slow-blinking.
We were stirred. He was not.
Our second encounter was different. We saw him ahead, off to the right, moving steadily. An apparition worthy of a Dickensian tale. Steps sure. Present.
Majestic.
We slowed the car and watched. Later, we learned that herds of bison roamed nearby.
Soon after, we pulled off near a waterfall just as the sun rose. The light painted the fog-draped canyon gold.
There were other wondrous moments on our long drives through this volcanic-etched wonderland: baby elk dancing at sunrise, an osprey guarding its nest, a coyote prancing toward prey.
None were afraid of our presence. They’d never been hunted by humans.
Did you know that our government declared Yellowstone a national park before the surrounding states were established?
Back at the lodge, a string quartet played in the lobby most nights. They’d been summering there with their families for years, rotating in from symphony halls across the country.
I wish I played the cello.
All musical requests were taken. Schubert to Taylor Swift. They even surprised this listener with a little Ramones.
One evening, they played the National Anthem. Some quickly stood, right hand placed in practiced formation. Others slowly followed.
I rose, lifted my right hand, and brought it to meet the left at heart center. And I prayed.
For peace.
For enlightenment.
For the collective recognition that true power lies not in land, arms, or currency, but in a diverse unity committed to the good of all.
A gift born of trust.
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