Carrion (noun): decaying flesh

There used to be storms in the region.

Usually, the weather throughout the seasons was quite pleasant: sunny skies, lazy winds, and rolling grass fields as far as the eye could see.

There used to be storms in the region, but they didn’t come from dark clouds.

They were the thunderous stomps of buffalo herds, majestically galloping across their territory. Their fur shone like molten metal under the brilliant sunlight, smooth yet sturdy at the same time.

There used to be storms in the region, until the hunters came.

From atop sprinting horses, they brought a new kind of tempest, both to the grassy expanse and the precious cycle of life that it held. With guns and bullets and knives and ropes, they murdered the buffalo, no matter for food or for sport.

There used to be storms in the region. Now it’s quiet.

The squall of horses left along with their arrogant riders and their weapons of crime. Left behind in the soft green carpet and the pleasant weather were unsettling mounds of death, stolen of their livelihood and deprived of an honorable passing. They rotted away, unmissed and unwept, in the cruelly gentle image of home.