Highveld Pride
into bristling white acacia thorns,
khaki bush, while the highveld exhales
its wild dog breath. A matriarch
of the Game Park’s spotted hyenas
splays her nostrils – the stink
of buffalo carcass prickles
her taste for marrow. She snakes
the troop along a rift
to where vultures flap-dance
around a bone-totem.
Merely a frame remains
of the bull butchered
by the park’s lion pride.
It casts a skeleton tent
over a jackal,
tugging at a dry eye
stuck in a skull socket.
Surrounded by flies,
a severed tail rests like a cobra
in the dirt. Bloody clots
mat the savannah.
With relish, they crush
ribs and hips – savoring
the tender essence
of the Plain when night falls.
© 2010 iota
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