Good Souls Are All the Same

The last moisture of the rainy season is still clinging to the grass tips, but there is already a sign of thirst in the air. The green of the Serengeti is fading, and a deeper, more anxious golden color is rising from the depths of the earth. Monga the wildebeest stood on the gentle slope, and his nose was filled with the smell of this change - the sweetness of the water plants had weakened, and the smell of dust and salt had become stronger. He didn't look up at the sky, and he didn't need to. That impulse is in the blood, like the rush of an underground river, low, stubborn, and unquestionable. It's time to go. The team gathered quietly before dawn. There were no orders, no noise, just the rustling of hooves across the meadow, forming a moist and continuous sound. Mengga took steps and naturally blended into the flowing black river. His steps were steady and gentle, his muscles memorizing this route he had taken countless times. Migrating to him is not an adventure, but an inevitable rhyme when the seasons turn the page. It was in this gray morning light that he saw them.