The Ancient Greek philosopher, Aristotle once said that elephants were “the animal which surpasses all others in wit and mind.”
Wandering on migration’s
paths in mud caked days and cooler night winds of the dusted parks,
in search of food and shallow pockets to bathe,
three generations of elephants; a herd in tow, they walk – wafting on rumbling
storm clouds underfoot – in the ruddy, powder trails of the lazy, thirsty,
arid soils – they are drawn, respectful.
Delicate strokes for each long lost family, each historical bone is touched –
bleached white stoicism’s stark seeds in the ghosted graveyard terrain –
relics of familiar ancestors. Even the smallest mourner is tender;
curious reverence is succour while tranquil, emptied carcasses
await closure – life hollowed and stilled –
not abandoned but grieved for, not forgotten but reunited –
by touching caresses of long reaching
history and emotions, intimate gestures
reach these lost souls – wandering ghosts
of the plains. A family line stretching back
through generations sharply
pierces a family line’s
queued up approbation in
remembrance of a shared
past and haunting visions – blurred
by sickness, or bloodshed. Small
calves punctuate columnar
legs – unifying, intertwining,
brought closer together,
and closer still until bonds
can bear no more. The elder
turns one last time; long
lashed pauses nod to long
lost relics of ancestral
rains – slow motion
drips down tears
through times
and atrocity
and its victims.
His eyes have
glimpsed
it in farewells
and dark pools –
still, they are all of them
winners in the game of life
As it Comes 