You say that the battle is over
You say that the war is all done
Go tell it to those with the wind in their nose
Who run from the sound of the gun
John Denver

In the inky darkness of a new moon the sounds of Serengeti herald the impending dawn-the couplet verse of a ring-necked dove, moaning for her continent, for the people, for her wildlife brethren. It's an anthem, stirring deep, calling back the pilgrim. That would be me.

The sun creeps above yonder horizon. The sky puts on a color show, like southern lights-lavender, lilac, and finally ocean blue. The anthem continues. Shimmering wildlife appears in the distance, wildebeests on the move. Possessed of a wandering gene, or simply in search of greener pastures? No one really knows. But they are restless. Even their sound is fidgety.

Kopjes, tree tufted mounds of granite boulders, rise like islands in a sea of savanna. Found only here, they punctuate the plains like braille bumps. They offer shade, security, and a lookout perch for predators. A female lion crouches atop a high boulder, tail flicking side to side, gaze fixed, ears cocked. Surely the morning hunt. But no. Now I see him too, a big male with black mane blowing in the wind, the king in royal strut, cleaving the tall grass. He's the center of this universe and he knows it.

Later, making our way through a disheveled thicket, there is dust in the distance. In a clearing are two elephants, adolescent males sparring, baggy "britches" waving to and fro. Then a heave and a ho, and finally, trunk raised, the trumpet call of victory. The victor turns and glares at us, bluff charges, then struts away in triumph. (next photo)