The Herd of Springboks

The sky whispers low, then roars,  

quivering air splits, wild life stirs.  

Thunder drums the distant earth's chest,  

a stampede of clouds tills the air.  

They, striped in grace and golden fire,  

freeze as statues in the sun's palm—  

eyes wide with ancient pulse of fear,  

ears sculpted to catch the world's hum.  

Then! They leap like sparks from stone,  

bodies arcing toward an eternal edge,  

tails flicking melodies upon the waves,  

each jump a hymn, a skyward salute.  

The herd's rhythm tears the moment.  

Field bends as time trembles, collapses.  

Springboks—priests of fleeting motion,  

beacons of life exalting transient joy.