Before the monsoon descends in feverish torrents, and The Great Migration begins, the earth crumbles, crackles and slides into tawny showers of sand and stone.
Parched prey pray to elude their nemeses, who scour patches of brown grass, their noses low and quivering, sniffing the dust for the faintest fragrance of food.
Baboons heckle crocodiles, whose eggs they've stolen; female lions pounce on defenseless gazelles. Necks snap. Life looms for all in the gathering rain clouds. Yet death will follow, stealthy as a leopard in tall grass.
We ***** the globe like a shaky-legged newborn giraffe, awkward and vulnerable; dewy-eyed and gulping the heavy particles of air for the sure scent of sustenance. Our prey carries no smell, no taste, no movements.
It is sheer spirit shaped from the eternal whirlwinds of dust that dance around our path. How else shall we advance? Rain, when it comes, only splatters in our eyes. We await The Great Migration of Souls.