By Lina Norris-Raman, TIWP Student

We roll to a stop, dust settling quietly,
I force my neck out the window, craning to see the
bison herd, to witness the indisputable peace.
It’s a warm day, sun heavy on my skin,
and everything should be simple.
But there, by the lapping current, is one lone bison,
letting the stream’s water lick its black, ancient hooves.
The picture of ease. Tranquility absolute.
No project due at 11:59.
No mirror to look in.
No scale to watch.
No rumors.
No social media.
No insecurities.
No financial hardships.
No burden of knowing: not the last shooting,
not the last hospital standing in Gaza.
Just the grass,
the water, and the sun.
And the longing hits—a wave so heavy
it wells behind my eyes, blurring the herd,
making the whole world a shimmering ache.
If only.
But then the engine ticks, and the Toyota
—busted, rattling with the ghost miles of a continent—
calls me back.
If I were that bison, raising my head slowly
from the cool water,
I would see the curly-haired girl in the glass,
singing off-key to an old, worn song:
“Rocky Mountain High.”
And I, the beast, free of the human world’s noise,
would look at that freedom—that movement, that road—
and I would think, with a deep, unknowable pull:
If only.