may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile
e.e. cummings
Zebra.
Kori Bustard. Because they are so heavy, they tend to walk more than fly. Bustard means birds that walk.
It’s a long bumpy jeep ride before we arrive at the Maasai village and the open air market. I’m uncomfortable because I feel like a rich American among the poor Maasai. It’s as if anything the West brings only works if it’s money. Western clothes—jeans and t-shirts—look dirty and dingy. Traditional Maasai clothes are bright and colorful red and purple wraps that look beautiful against the dark skin and long limbs of the Maasai. The women wear elaborate beads and the warriors carry walking sticks or spears. I see Moses, my favorite guide, wearing a green linen shirt and pressed pants and realize that what they wear is irrelevant. Guides are paid pretty well. So, again, it comes down to money.
Schools and medicine are always welcome. We visited a few schools on our way to the market. The religion that paid for the school becomes the faith of the students. Presbyterian. Catholic. Lutheran.
Now that I want to spend my dollars at the market, I realize that I’ve foolishly spent all of my money at the little shop at the lodge. All I can do is admire the bright fabric and the Artful Dodger, Stephen, who charms and smiles for the most gum and trinkets from our party.
After wandering through the market looking at coffee, potatoes, clothes, shoes, sandals made of tires, bright patterned fabric, and children wanting, we go to the cattle market where the men are packed in a corral buying and selling cattle and goats.
Clare buys a dark brown goat for the staff at the lodge. It’s a beautiful little thing and I’m afraid it will be slaughtered and served for our dinner. LeDoux thinks the same thing so we decided to ride in a different jeep on the return trip. We ride with Moses.
The Range Rover dies a few times on the way home, once when Moses stops for me to pee behind a huge tree called the wait-a-minute because the branches catch on your clothes and stop you in your tracks until someone comes to release you from its grip. Moses being Moses, jumps the gears and gets us going from a dead stop. With the Chyulu Hills in sight, we see a group of ostrich and Moses slows down.
“Don’t stop,” We yell. “We don’t need to stop!”
Paula Calls it “Giraffic Park.”
Butcher birds. They skewer their bait on a thorn and save the kills to eat later.
Small thistle trees are thick on the side of a hill. The branches are short and packed with needles and dark hollow balls that house ant colonies. Moses pulls the jeep along side a tree. It’s barely as tall as the wheels and as Moses pulls on one of the long thorns, ants swarm out of the ball. Moses says they emit a nasty smell to keep animals away. The holes in the balls make a whistle when the wind passes bye. The giraffe are experts at eating the tiny leaves and don’t bother the ants.
Moses drives around the trees in a zig zag up the hill occasionally running over one of the smaller ones. They pop up defiantly behind us as we move up the hill.
Ah giraffe. It’s a family. They are vaguely curious about the small jeep but, without a natural predator, indifferent to us. With a slow glance, they return to feeding on the trees or move further up the hill.
We can see LeDoux, Annie, and the boys walking across the plain and all giraffe necks turn lazily to watch the low creatures make their way past.
We end the day with drinks in hand on one of the volcanic hills overlooking the valley. Nothing man-made can be seen forever. It’s a revelation.
The Kids That Don't Grow at the Boo Radley house buried a bird in the front yard last November. The grave isn't in their front yard exactly, but on the outer rim of the property where it meets the asphalt of the road. You can see it if you walk or drive by. Months of rain and traffic and visitors and dogs have changed and altered the grave site. 
