The Swinging Eleven (written few years ago at Serengeti) Deep within the endless Serengeti,  At sun down, appear the swinging eleven, Kicking dust and swishing tails, The pachyderms slowly trailing the head, Silhouettes near the horizon, quickly looming close,  Filing past my vantage point, towards the watering hole Trunks full of water, for their daily dunk, To drink and soothe parched throats, Smearing mud, keeping the sun  and bees at bay, Trumpeting and rolling in a drunken brawl, Splashing and spreading noisy fun, Till darkness creeps, and shadows fall A low rumble, and the matriarch starts to move,  Steadily flapping her ears, a cue for the herd to tail, All but the merry calf, loath to leave the slush, Clambering to hide under a belly, But gently nudged ahead,  to tamely fall in, with the rest  Slowly trudging back, with the fading sun, The elephants soon disappear,  Into the wild welcoming fold Feeling bereft and forlorn, I wait for tomorrow, And the joy it brings, To watch the herd at play, Once again World Elephant Day