Three Heartbeats

In the morning Polly found a cheetah sitting on a termite mound like a statue of pure attention. Cheetahs hunt by sight, in daylight, which makes them easy to watch and very hard to keep up with. Polly settled on a dry branch nearby, folded her blue-teal wings, and waited with her. Out on the open grass, a young gazelle wandered a little too far from its group.

The cheetah left the mound the way an arrow leaves a bow. From standing still to one hundred kilometres per hour takes her about three seconds, quicker than nearly every sports car, her long tail swinging behind her like a rudder to steer the turns. Polly flew after her at full speed and lost her in three heartbeats. No bird her size could have done anything else.

The gazelle escaped. It jumped sideways twice, the cheetah's paw found only air, and the chase was over as suddenly as it began. This is normal. More than half of a cheetah's hunts end exactly this way. A sprint like hers costs so much energy that she must now lie in the shade, sides heaving, before she can try again.

Polly found her there later and kept her company. Here is the strangest cheetah fact of all: they cannot roar. The big roar belongs to lions and leopards. Cheetahs chirp, high and bright, like a bird. The cheetah looked at Polly and chirped. Polly, delighted, chirped back. They understood each other perfectly, or not at all. It was hard to say.