In summer, impalas
feed on young shoots of grass;
in winter on herbs and shrubs where grasslands
meet the savannah, so we don’t worry
for their breed. Even as individual
breathing animals, impalas stay invisible
to us, like asides. Graceful, territorial,
we still hear their voices
as they’re vaguely piping. Their species
thrive on the plains, even when
they’re slaughtered wholesale by jackals,
pythons and baboons. With their white bellies,
their chestnut coats, leaping forays,
we cannot hold onto them
skittering across the plains. Whatever suddenness
makes their hearts race, they are great joys
for all we pour into them
that is not them. We pour into them
the river that rises to their lapping tongues,
the heat that makes their chests expand
and contract like accordions: they play familiar tunes
on a street corner, but not on the street where you live.