Elephants rumble
in flat grass fields.

Skin—earthy, ancient
slick with fog
grasshopper rain.

Instead of crying
she shovels mud
builds sanctuaries
homes for herds
and snout-swinging
curious calves
lingering near pools
of purple fruit
and shaman dust.

Ghost men watch
from poaching posts
eyeing the ivory.

Her touch is a balm
against the onslaught.

If only she could
sleep standing up.