Watering hole
A Short Story
All eyes were on the muddy watering hole: zebras, gazelles, lions and hyenas, all waiting with bated breath. Up above, the light of the sun cut paths through the obstructing clouds, and bathed the landscape in a warm light. This light is a glint in the eyes of all the animals, but on the face of the watering hole, it is a mask that hides Death lurking below the still waters. The animals stare from a distance at the still waters. They dare not go nearer because of a gnarly dark mass protruding slightly above the water surface, sometimes moving, sometimes still.
According to their ancestors, the little oasis, which provided water for beast and birds in the valley had once been a huge ocean with shores as wide as the borders of sight, and as deep as the soul of the Savannah. On its surface, each animal sought reflection, and in its depth was buried stories, too many to recall, too old to retell. And mysteries locked away forever, long calcified. There were many stories of the oasis, and each animal in the valley told its own side of that story to succeeding generations. Predators told stories of prey in flight; preys told stories of death, fear and fright.
What predator and prey shared though, was a common bond at the watering hole — a bond of mutual survival as they kept distance from each other while coming together to stay alive. Hippopotamuses…
