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21 He Who Roams the Plains” Mtembei, the youngest giraffe I am the dream of the Serengeti as its drowsy gold expanse dozes under cloud shadows. As the spotted surface of the sleeping field, I lift away, am sewn together in the breeze— a tall dream filled with length and hay. But, living now, having come into this world, having filled a body, an epic journey across dusty folds of hot dry land, migration inland to a secret source of water—what am I now? The sudden showers dampen down my horns. I hear distant rhythms in the swaying grasses. The airborne seeds drift by on wands of wind like missives from that former hovering world. My hooves clack on the sun-baked mud. Here. Here. And mirrored in the watering hole. “ 22 All the inaccessible highest branches flaunt their full green leaves, the shapely edges winking to me, twinkling— I’m hoisting myself high, higher to see— But I am only a baby. How will I know the moment? Will it be an aperture of light growing wider, growing brighter, or a far-flung colored beam? Will I see a radiant face among the throngs, a gaze that turns toward me and connects and locks into my long-lashed eyes? Will I overhear a shred of melody, an ancient song I recognize? ...

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