He breaks away from the herd,
brave young bull.
The matriarch bellows goodbye;
perhaps to her only son.
I feel his splash-thump steps,
before he trunks me
over his parched-leather hide;
I’m too shallow to swim in you see.
Part of me ripples
towards the scorched shore,
and there I see them:
khaki-killing machines,
crouched-aiming cruelty;
takers of life.
Bright sunlight catches
the white one’s Rolex;
a blood-tourist.
The poor hearing herbivore
paddles and grunts,
blind to the bead drawn on him,
as I do my best to cool his feet.
“Good munee in dem tusks, Sabib”,
the Mahout turned traitor whispers.
More paddling. More
grunts;
just an oblivious silhouette
on my blue
till the shot
and the final splash.
Tomas Bird - Hot Moon 2015
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