Botswana

A ghost ship slips

'or The Okavango Delta.

A silhouete from 1,000 feet.

A Cessna shadow. A youthful aviatrix. A nervous fare.

Dirt landings amidst surreal, terrestrial landscapes.

Jeeping lethargy through mud, dust, and dusk.

Sage bouquets heavy on agitated air,

Like unwashed sweat, sickly sweet.

A Jeep made tiny by natives, annoyed with tourists,

Stomping frustrated ground with giant feet.

Swamp boats through reeds. Gnats thick,

Hurtling against dark glasses and white teeth.

A wake, hippo eyes adrift upon thick water,

And crocs.

Baobab sing-songs, ancient songs,

Bird-asaurus songs

And shimmy with primatic play.

African tambourines,

Bangwato dance beat,

African songs thrilling,

Animal songs chilling,

The night cries, whoops, and screams

At a bloody red moon.

To sleep is to miss the drama,

The sleuth, the slink, the chase.

To sleep is to miss it all,

The run, the kill, the escape.

To sleep is to face the lion,

To feel his breath, to smell his Death.

He is always close, in The Okavango.