The juxtaposition of black against white like
so many keys on a nine-foot baby grand
but music of that sort cannot be found here.
All is silence.
An ear twitches.
A tufted tail bats the bothersome fly whose spot had interrupted
a perfect white stripe.
There is no other movement on the plains but
agile hooves await a warning.
Suddenly, the herd flies like windblown pages
as if somehow connected to a single spine
stampeding toward the Mara and her waiting crocodiles.
The river is mud and blood as one of the young is caught and rolled
by Paleozoic jaw.
On the southern bank, six find their footing and
shake the last of brown water and fear from their hides
to join the others in grasslands now interrupted
by a stripe of a different kind.
Strange highway that severs this last of migrations,
a couple stops their SUV to photograph.