I watched from a river bank in Hayden Valley as a coyote slowly walked toward the carcass of a fallen female bison, its narrow eyes fixed on the prize before it. The rest of the herd, still nearby, had begun to notice the intruder. A few of the bison lifted their heads, the heavy sound of their breath carrying on the wind. The coyote made its move, inching closer to the body, but before it could get too close to the fallen bison, the herd reacted.

With a low rumble, one of the massive bulls charged, hooves thundering across the ground. The coyote darted back, startled, retreating several yards. It crouched low in the grass, eyes locked on the bison, its hunger making it bolder than it should’ve been. But the bull wasn’t finished. He pawed at the ground, throwing up dirt and dust as a few others joined him, forming a protective line in front of their fallen herd mate.

The coyote made another attempt to sneak closer, but the bison were relentless. This time, three of them surged forward as a group, their massive heads swinging low in warning. Frustrated and outmatched, the predator backed off once again, pacing restlessly along the outskirts of the scene.

The herd held their ground for nearly a half hour, heads down in a posture of both grief and defense. They moved slowly around the carcass, their massive frames casting shadows as the sun rose higher in the sky. It was a strange, solemn sight—these giants of the valley, so full of life and power, standing guard over their fallen companion, unwilling to let the wild claim her so easily.

Finally, as if some unseen signal had passed through them, the bison began to turn away. One by one, they walked with their heads hanging low, their heavy steps echoing through the quiet valley. The coyote watched from a distance, waiting for the moment when they were far enough to leave him in peace. When the last of the herd had turned its back, the coyote moved again, edging closer to the carcass, but it hesitated, eyeing the bison warily as they began to trot further away.

Then, in a sudden burst of movement, the herd took off, running as one across the open valley. Their hooves pounded against the earth, sending vibrations through the ground, dust rising behind them like a storm. I watched as they ran, fading into the distance, their powerful strides carrying them further and further away from the place of loss.

When the sound of their hooves finally faded, the memory of the bison, the way they defended their own, and the way they carried their grief quietly before disappearing into the wild—stayed with me long after the valley fell silent.