He waits and waits and waits and waits and waits
and waits and waits and waits and waits and wa...

A decisive stomp of one hoof, and he's a different color altogether.
Charmed, he does it again.

A kimeti lounges by a bush that is nothing but naked branches,
petals scattered around her in the grass, staining her muzzle.
Her sated swollen stomach bulges between her flanks,
and all she can think of is more, more, more--
Flowers only grow so slowly.

Sleep, father said; the day is over, now it is time to rest.
I won't, I said; there is still so much to see.

A spider climbs on top of a fallen log, looking for food. The log is broken, rotting, steadily turning into pulp,
and full of cracks and holes and shadows, half-hidden in the grass, forgotten and ignored.

In goes the spider into a crevice... and out comes the spider with a jewel:
not food, but something delightful, unexpected, and far more valuable.

Even at a young age, his strides were as long as the adults', and just as bold.

When traveling from the plains to the swamp in the height of summer, the heat of the sun bakes the earth. The earth cools down by sending up a rising wind, hot and dry, that ruffles the grass and tangles the hair, driving the moisture from the eyes and mouth, and sends the locusts into flight.

Traditionally, each of the kiokote in the herd takes turns being the leader, breaking the endless wind so the others can follow in their wake.

She remembers nothingness and then suddenly being the windjammer, putting her head down and soldiering on.

A stoop, a short scream, an alarmed puff of feathers, and then a shadow rising on the wind, up and away:

Just kidding.

The lizard tastes like sound and color, sending the trees and grass before him spiraling into the sky, turning the ground to mush and his movements slow and lazy.

It tastes, frankly, terrible.

But he eats another.

This kin has no naming dream at this time.

This kin has no naming dream at this time.

This kin has no naming dream at this time.

From two, one.