Grandfather Bison and the Gophers

A Red River Métis Fable

Out on a high bluff above the Assiniboine River, an old bison skull lay half-buried in the grass. Its horns were curled proud, bleached by the sun and by time. A relic of strength and endurance.

One morning, two gophers popped out of their burrow nearby. They chattered to each other, stretching in the sunlight as they sniffed the air.

The bison skull spoke with a dry, dusty voice, “You little diggers are always jumping at shadows, running and hiding. Where’s your pride? Back in my day, I stood tall and faced storms head-on. I didn’t flinch at the wind.”

One gopher looked up, ears twitching. “That might be true, Grandfather,” he said, brushing dust from his nose, “but we stay alive by paying attention. When the wind changes, we feel it. When the hawk circles, we’re gone. When the frost comes, we dig down and wait it out.”

“Yeah,” added the other gopher, “standing tall doesn’t help much when you end up as someone else’s dinner.”

The skull gave a snort but said nothing more.

That night, a storm came rolling off the plains. Thunder cracked like rifle fire and the wind rose like a fiddle climbing quick and lively. Rain turned the bluff to mud, and the river spun fast and mean.

The gophers stayed safe below, tucked deep in their burrow, but Grandfather Bison, always proud and defiant, was swept away with the flood.

When the skies cleared, the gophers came up into the morning light. The grass was flattened and the river bank scarred, but they were alive. The old skull was gone, carried off by the deluge, like so many things too proud to move. 

Not all strength stands tall, and yielding is not always a weakness. True wisdom is in knowing when to move within a storm.