There is at all times
A soup boiling
In the plains of the Savannah.
As the wind presses its large and small hands
Into the course straw grass
To smooth the wrinkles-
But also to make more.

And falling slowly, fluxing,
Between the waves—creatures,
All of them strange,
Blending.
And from time to time, a sickening red,
But only for a while,
Until it is swirled once more into the soup,
Or steeping into the earth as tea.

There is sometimes a stacking of skies;
Amber
On top of pink,
On top of blue,
With pyrite flecks-
But not yet indigo.

And one form rises up out of them;
A baobab moving slowly,
Mushrooming monster,
Exploding exponentially outward.

And at its calloused feet
Are porcelain painted zebras
And soft clay elephants,
Who reshape themselves in the gray murk
Of the water hole-
Which is sometimes blue,
And sometimes sheeted mica shimmering.

Watching quietly, the prince.
Who is still,
(But not exempt!)
Unable to be, but becoming.

Exhausted and exhausting,
Around his furrowed face is a mane
Of technicolor flames.