September 12, 2021

The lost kingdom

This old boy will be gone soon, his gait, his tattered ears, his interactions with the sounder of warthogs around him, how often he’s challenged, the frequency of his “rest-stops”… they tell a story of a creature hanging on to the last vestiges of power, of dominance. Yes, he’s still able to chase away younger bulls, defend his territory and protect his “food”, but, barely, barely; the circle is closing in.

By Rosemary Alles

This old boy will be gone soon, his gait, his tattered ears, his interactions with the sounder of warthogs around him, how often he’s challenged, the frequency of his “rest-stops”… they tell a story of a creature hanging on to the last vestiges of power, of dominance. Yes, he’s still able to chase away younger bulls, defend his territory and protect his “food”, but, barely, barely; the circle is closing in.

I like to imagine that his life was well lived, perhaps a hard life, but perhaps one where he was also master of his domain. I imagine a time when he walked without the occasional limp, when he wasn’t so tired, when he didn’t have to rest so often; when he ran through the brush with his tail high, a swashbuckling shit stirrer, relishing being alive. Then, I wonder if he knows his time is short, and that soon, his kingdom will no longer be his, but belong to another.

Look. His eyes are old, wise and knowing; somehow, I like to dream, to believe, that his passing will be peaceful and kind; but nature is a harsh and truthful mother, so my dream for him may not come to pass. Still, he has a gift most humans rarely possess. He will accept his passing without rancor or complaint and he’ll go back to earth softly, the way he was born; pure, brilliant, leaving nothing behind, not even his memories, just the atoms he inherited from a distant, exploding star.

Soon, he will be sleeping in the forest. And another kind of kingdom will be his.

By Rosemary Alles

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