The Crossing

By midday the herd reached the Grumeti River, and everything stopped. Thousands of wildebeest packed the bank, staring at the brown water, pushing forward and pulling back. They were afraid, and they were right to be. Crocodiles live in this river, some of them longer than a rowing boat and older than fifty years, and they have waited most of the year for exactly this week.

Then one animal jumped. That is all it ever takes. The bank emptied like a held breath let go, hundreds of bodies pouring into the river at once, spray everywhere, horns and ears and white water. Polly flew just above their backs through the cool mist, her bright green body skimming the chaos, her round glasses streaked with river water.

Not every animal reached the far side. The river kept a few, quietly, at the edges of the crowd. Polly watched from a fig branch and did not look away. The crocodiles are not villains here. They are part of how this plain has worked for longer than anyone can measure, and tomorrow they will be still again.

By evening the crossing was over. The survivors climbed the far bank, shook themselves like wet dogs, and simply went back to eating grass, as if the bravest moment of their year had already been forgotten. The river smoothed itself flat. Polly stayed on her branch until the stars came out.