Passing by Derek Huynh

The rains will come soon. The cracked earth will open to receive the sky’s water and leave a trail of green for us to follow. The ground feels good beneath my hooves today. Strong and hard. I run past the line of zebras, their heads down to the earth as they walk. They cling together in twos and threes. The others snort their scorn and tell me I will not survive the great journey alone.

We walk across a large island of grass, the dry leaves silhouetted by a red sun. Far off, I can see the Tall Ones, searching for trees to graze. Air-sick, my mother used to say. The Tall Ones do not like to talk to us because we are small and striped. We laugh at them and tell them they are too lost in the sky.

The ground is salty here, and sweltering hot. The air shimmers far off, and the phantom water puddles lie just out of reach. I run after them to see if I can catch one, but they seem to shrink and disappear even as I start. A foal gallops past me, short mane bouncing in the wind, and I laugh and I chase him. I win our race easily, for he is but a child. His father is trotting towards me, broad white teeth bared. I skip away as the powerful stallion nears.

Two young zebras run through the herd, boasting their speed to attract the attention of mares. I watch them from afar. One of them is stronger and soon the other slinks off, leaving the victor to toss his head with pride.

The day is slow and hot. I see a father behind us. A lame foal follows him, its legs stiff and lethargic. Even though the father walks more slowly, the foal can barely keep up. He will die soon. These things happen here in the great salt desert. The foal, the runners, this long journey—they are but passing shadows. And the rains will come again.