Hunting For Elephants

Forward.

A dozen elephants on the run from the charge,

black bodied silhouettes rampant against the sunset.

Emperor tusks uprooting trees and boulders,

shards of climate shook loose from commotion.

The din of trumpets angry and wild, and nostrils flared, and

a gale of dust kicked into the air, and the sun a forest

fire at the end of the uncharted world.

I take aim and miss the herd.

Forward.

Branches snapped and trampled like a whip cracked

over the Earth. Blisters of blood eagerly absorbed

by the bone-dry cover of dust. The colossuses toss their

heads and exhale a tower of steam that hisses

through the cooling of dusk. In the settling darkness,

flashes of ivory release sparks as they rub and clash,

and tear soft flesh from the hanging tongues.

I aim again and miss the herd.

Forward.

Those wiry hairs adorning their bodies create static

like a storm, you know, and charge the wind like a trillion

needles scrubbed across the inseams of my leather.

Civilisations tossed over their shoulders to bar the pursuing

path. The darkness threatens yellow eyes and feral screams,

hanging from vines, watching from shrubs, kilometres away.

In the morning, I will see what I have done.

Forward.