𝗔 𝗭𝗲𝗯𝗿𝗮 𝗥𝘂𝗻𝘀 𝗔𝗰𝗿𝗼𝘀𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗮𝘃𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗮
𝘣𝘺 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘞𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳
A Zebra runs across the savanna
where a man on LSD looks through a treeless diorama and rose-colored glasses, sees colors where black and white should be. A lion licks its claws without bloodying them as a neon-flavored zebra flares green and gold. He’s amused at first. Becomes concerned when the zebra gallops forward, swelling in his vision, dust mingling at its single-toed hooves, pink tongue hanging heavy. There are trees where no trees should be. And wetlands, or lands too wet to travel upon for plains zebras. And yet high yip barks echo across Africa, the landscape shifting as they shift, barcode stripes, as distinct as fingerprints, randomly appearing in a kaleidoscope. Rejected bachelor herds roam freely on tiptoe, no longer sniffing nose to nose, nuzzling cheeks, sniffing genitals, or rubbing their heads against a potential partner’s rump. No longer bothered with harems and dust paths leading to the best mare. Content in having black skin under their white stripes, they deny the existence of their stripe less cousins: horses and donkeys, distant as extinct quaggas, obvious aberrations of light. Simple kinds of simultaneity. A lonely quarter century lies ahead with much mutual grooming, and lions, leopards, cheetahs and hyenas to be heroically kicked while zigzagging away, emitting as they run, a high-pitched snort to “family”. Better than eyes opened-wide or bared yellow teeth. A bray, a bark or huff. Or the laying back of ears. In self-evident evolutionary terms: in their timeline the auditory spectrum opens wider than the visual.