In the distance a plume of dust billows up. The forms are not yet discernable as the ground beneath my feet is beginning to rumble. Suddenly this stunning scene is upon me; a wave of massive bison charge forward led by a single rider. The thrashing winds bearing down are no match for this opposing force of thundering hoof beats and blur of flash and steel. The deep dark shadows cast by a foreboding sky are momentarily illuminated by the crack and flash of lightening that claw at the sky with its splintering fingers. Is this some sort of surreal dream? Then all at once it hits me. These forms that are before me are drenched in freedoms song. No borders, no boundaries can restrain real freedom. In its truest nature it is the rider carving his own path towards the endless horizon in honor of all those who fell too soon. It is the charging of countless buffalo paying tribute for all those that were slain by the greed of a nation. It is the hour they must own. It is their time.