I stood before a beast of the old world, a creature of such power and quiet majesty that I instinctively prepared my deepest bow. Yet, the other onlookers called it by a most curious name. He stood in the meadow like a hill that had decided to grow fur. The bison. Horned. Ancient. Wearing winter on his shoulders in the middle of June. The visitors adore him. "Look at the fluffy cow!" said a woman, with real love in her voice. Fluffy cow. They speak of him the way one speaks of a beloved dog. I understand the affection. I cannot share the familiarity. Because I have read the sign. The sign says he runs three times faster than a man. The sign says stay back twenty-five yards. That is not a warning. That is a herald, announcing a lord. "In my land," I told the park ranger, "we would not call him fluffy. We would give him a name with thirteen syllables and build him a small shrine." "Twenty-five yards works too," she said. So I paid my respects from twenty-five yards. I planted my feet. I bowed — the full bow, the one for generals. The bison chewed, and watched me, and chewed. My heart was not calm. The sign also says he can charge without warning. I bowed efficiently. Dignity has gears. "He acknowledged you," said the ranger. "He did not." "No, he did not," she agreed. "But you did the right thing anyway." That is the whole art, is it not. He owes me nothing. He fought wolves and winters and centuries, and won, and he does not need my bow. The bow was never for him to accept. It was for me to give. Respect does not need to touch. It bows from twenty-five yards, and the meadow understands. I will return every year. Same meadow. Same distance. He will not remember me. That changes nothing. One does not bow to be remembered.