Safari, Rift Valley

Minutes ago those quick cleft hoofs lifted the dik-dik’s speckled frame. Now the cheetah dips her delicate head to the still-pulsating guts. Our Rover’s so close we need no zoom to fix the green shot of her eyes, the matted red mess of her face. You come here, recall a father hale in his ordinary life, not his last bed, not the long tasteless slide of tapioca. This is the Great Rift, where it all began, here where the warthogs and hartebeest feed in the scrub, giraffes splay to drink, and our rank diesel exhaust darkens the air for only a few moments before vanishing.