From the dense cloud, the buffalo emerged, spectral and silent. Their forms barely visible, until one by one the fog let slip its grasp on the phantoms in its clutches. Their vast numbers formed an unending legion, each one a ghostly silhouette against the haze. This ethereal procession moved with purpose and unity, and a quiet grace that did not seem fitting of such large beasts. Perhaps they sensed how haunting their unnaturally hushed presence was, or perhaps it was that they were struck voiceless by the shock of being released from their fogbourne prison. For the only sound was the soft rustling of grass as their heavy bodies weaved through the foliage. And if it weren’t for the ground pulsing under their footfalls, one could almost forget the thousand phantoms in their ghostly march when you close your eyes.
