And Still, It Rains

He waited.

For fifty and six years it had traversed the lands, and for many of them, he was the king of his domain, which stretched for many miles. He’d mated, his progeny no doubt some of them had survived, too walked the Earth, though not close by if they knew what was good for them.

But now, he simply waited.

He’d been waiting, near motionless, for a couple of hours. Time didn’t matter, because eventually, it would come, then they would come, and all would be right again.

Until then, though.

Flies landed on him, then left.

At one point, a small bird landed on him. When it realized its faux pas, it quickly flew away.

He waited.

He noted with mild interest as one approached, slowly, nervously, getting ever closer to the edge. He had no doubt that it thirsted, and, certainly, there were small pockets of water from which it could drink, but, there were always perils.

It was young, not a child but not yet an adult. It had stepped down off of the ledge of weathered, brown grass and onto the muddy surface, mere feet from its destination. Its ears were fluttering to and fro as if it had radar and was searching for potential trouble.

Nary a muscle moved. Just his eye’s focus. Calculating. Whether it was advanced calculus, discerning the distance between two objects along with the estimated burst of speed required to cover the distance before escape, or, simple instinct, who knew? What was important was the interest level within its ancient, dinosaur-like brain, starting to percolate.

Bending down, lowering its head, the front legs spread wide to allow the head to come close to the murky brown water, its tongue reached out, tentatively lapping at the life-sustaining liquid, not aware that its own life was being put in jeopardy.

Still, it waited.

In its aged brain, it somehow determined that the amount of food potentially derived from the small animal was not enough to warrant the caloric expense, and more importantly, revealing itself to the rest.

It could tell that it wouldn’t be long now. The flashes of light in the distance, the booming noise, it was like this each time, without fail.

There was a restlessness in the air. The young creature moved away from the water with a bolt and scampered back up the bank, eager to join its herd once again.

It waited.

Hours later, it began.

Massive, towering storm clouds had moved in, darkening the sky. Tremendous claps of thunder shattered the relative peace, and lighting shot across the sky, many destined to strike the ground as if Hell itself was looking for a connection upward.

And it rained. Rained as if it held no quarter over the monsoons of India. The heavens opened up with God’s tears and blessed the land far and wide with water, so needed to give the Earth’s lifeblood to the creatures spread upon the savanna.

If the herd itself could talk, one would hear a jubilant cry of thanks rushing through the ranks. Over the next few hours, the rain remained constant, a deluge of biblical proportions, sending a considerable volume of water rushing over the banks and into the river, filling it and sending it downstream.

It waited.

And the next morning, when the torrents continued and the river was flowing with great haste, the herd finally was able to come and drink, parched that they were.

In a burst of speed that would impress a world-class sprinter, the Nile crocodile shot up from the turbulent waters, its muscular, gaping jaws that were filled with three-inch long sharp teeth grabbing hold of the adult zebra’s throat. The zebra was no match for the fifteen-foot-long, half-ton reptile and the smaller, stunned grazer was pulled underwater with ease, the crocodile’s jaws among the most powerful of a land animal on the planet.

And still, it rained. And still, life went on.

For some, but, not for all.