A thought on the circle of life.

A dark sack emerges from the mother gazelle and drops to the ground. The mother gazelle consumes the placenta sack and exposes the frail little calf, still soaked and shivering in the calm African breeze. The calf tries to get to its feet. There are predators waiting all around you for an easy kill, an easy meal. The mother is now staring out watching the world around. Eyes fixed on the swaying grass ahead. It doesn't even notice the stumbling calf trying to get to its feet. The little calf tumbles this way and that way like a it's trying to walk on stilts. Eventually it manages to get up and with some support from the mother it is ready to suckle for the first time. It is a rare comfort. Almost in no time at all the little calf is off on its way, shadowing its mother, hiding in the grasses. Sometimes playing with the other calves. Life is fun among the young calves, and then a rustle in the distance.

All the adult gazelles stretch their necks, stare upwards, trying to capture the scent. The grassland seems so silent, caught in a moment of time. And then are off, running for their lives. One gazelle following another for dear life. No gazelle knowing where they are headed. No gazelle knowing what is behind them. No order, no plan, no promise of comfort at the other end, just the safety of numbers. They weave this way, they weave that way. Though the brush and out into the open grassland. Keep running. Keep stotting. Don't stumble. If you stumble you are done for. The lions will have you. There are no true friendships here, every gazelle for themselves. The adult gazelles brush past the little calf. It gets shoved this way and that way. It needs to learn quickly if it is to survive on the open grasslands. It lacks the instinct needed to survive. No time to learn that. Who is there to teach the little calf the ways of the grassland? No one, I'm afraid. They are a group in unison, but there is no union. There is only competition. I must be ahead of you. We once played together as friends, bucked and balled at each other, but now it is a race for life. Don't get left behind. The little calf is lost now. It cries out for its mother. The other gazelle keep pressing past. "Keep running" the adults seem to say as they shove past the little hapless calf, "Get out of my way" they snarl as they dart past.

Don't get left behind on this grassland, because you are sure to be gone. Your life hardly lived. Just keep running and be glad you are not that sorry old sickly one trying to keep up with the herd. Run until you pick up muscle in your step. Eat so you can pick up some fat, you are too frail my boy. Not much time for love and friendship on the grasslands. Soon it is time to run again. Run until your legs are aching. Run until your bones are boring into your nerves. Run until you breath gets heavier and it feels like you are exhaling blood. Run faster than the young bulls. No time to think about the past, the times of play, the mother you lost, the calves and fauns you sired, and their young ones frolicking around you, the old ones you left behind. No time to remember the life you had on the great plains now. Slow down old boy and you are gone.