In the heart of Yellowstone, a young bison named Thunder begins his first winter trial. As snow buries the vast meadows, the land turns silent, save for the mournful wind weaving through frost-covered pines. Bitter cold gnaws at his thick hide. Each breath turns to steam. Each step through the deep, powdery snow drains his strength.
With his massive head, Thunder sweeps aside snow to uncover withered grasses—dry, tasteless, and nearly void of nutrients. They offer just enough to keep him moving. He drifts toward the geysers, lured by the warmth and promise of green. There, the grasses taste richer—but they're saturated with minerals that slowly rot his teeth. Every bite is both a relief and a cost.
The skies darken. A blizzard descends. Thunder is separated from his herd, visibility near zero, the wind a screaming wall of ice. He stumbles through the white void, the air thick with the smell of sulfur and snow. Each night is colder than the last, silence broken only by the cracking of frozen trees.
Somewhere out there, his herd presses on, but Thunder doesn't know if he'll find them again. His strength wanes. The snow shows no sign of melting. Danger lingers in the shadows—wolves, hidden ravines, starvation.
Still, he moves forward. Because that’s what bison do.
Spring is a hope, not a promise.
