Another old poem with a fresh coat of paint…
I see poachers testing the freshness of scat,
carefully avoiding the traps.
It doesn’t matter what kind of animal stumbles into the hole
they will kill it, eat its liver, sell the parts to local shamans.
The bush is a dangerous place.
Something the color of death plunges through the air,
over the traps, and is gone.
The darkening sky blooms with a million hard diamonds.
The Earth is alive another night.
Africa is the secret of creation,
yet something has just gone lonely into the bush.