An old man sits, gazing across the sere, grassy plain that stretches endlessly eastward. If you were able to see him, you would notice his empty unfocussed eyes. He is looking far away, seeing a dust plume growing. Forms emerge. Great shaggy bison, moving toward the river below. As they lower their heads to drink, reflections confuse the image. They are but ghosts at the river, past their time.

A wrenching twist. People are gathered at the rivers edge, the bison a shape, a memory, blurred by time, behind them. They are but ghosts at the river, past their time.

The river is gone. Its passage through the centuries etched in arroyo walls. Reflections preserved in sedimentary layers, more precious, as they age, ghosts at the river, past their time.