Out here there are those who dig and those who bolt.
There is surge and panic.
There is the split hoof and the blindeye.
There is the red African sun.
gone orange, going gold.
I have babies;
I hide them in the shade of thorn bushes.
I have the softstep
and the loose-backed sprint--
I'm on you quicker than your next thought.
I am not the strongest here,
nor the most ancient,
but I am the most immediate.
Will you linger, just long enough?
Will the new grass turn you stupid with satiety?
I am a stranger to that;
it is a luxury I can't indulge.
I wonder, under the now white-yellow sun,
will I be the engine of my cubs' survival--
the mother of their learning the savage crimson heart of this place,
Or will a dark burrower be my undoing?
Will the timid digger's den be my last fast step
before I stumble and fall,
broken-legged and doomed?
There are no answers yet,
only dust, the next breath, hunger's unrelenting imperative,
and the gold of the African sun
then disappeared until tomorrow.
for Poetry Jam, where the topic is "The Beast In You".