Clara dreamed of being
Something other than a buffalo,
Maybe even living
In the tropics, in a bungalow,

Wearing cocoa-lotion,
Dressed in sandals by the sea —
Clara was a bison, but
An awful lot like me.

Clara lived in splendor
Mid the snowing on a mountainside,
Perfectly in freedom, and
Quite cozy in her fur and hide,

But she wanted sand for snow,
To trade the cold for warm —
Clara was a lot like me,
In slightly different form.

Maybe you are wondering
If Clara ever learned to be
Happy as she was, not always
Pining for the distant sea,

Yes, she did, the story goes,
For she had met a bird,
Who told her all about the beach
And much she’d never heard

About the way that buffalo
Would melt in that much heat,
And how there wasn’t grass down there,
So little, then, to eat —

So Clara dreams of something else:
Next summer she will be
A home for migratory birds
Who make it back

From sea

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