THE WILDEBEAST AND THE GNU YEAR

In the dusk before the dawn of an unnumbered turning,

when the sky was a cracked drum and the plains hummed low,

a lone wildebeest stood on the rim of the Gnu Year,

hooves planted in dust older than prophecy.

He was called Thundermane, Son of the Dry River,

Keeper of the Unscheduled Stampede,

the one who could hear the ticking of the earth

long before clocks were invented.

Behind him, the herd murmured like distant thunder,

their breath rising in ghostly chords—

a Doomgrass choir tuning their throats

for the ritual of the Arbitrary Demarcation of Time.

Thundermane lifted his head to the wind.

It carried no omens, no warnings,

only the scent of grass that had not yet grown

and storms that had not yet chosen a direction.

“Tell us,” cried the calves, “what awaits in the Gnu Year?”

Their voices trembled like loose fence wire in a gale.

Thundermane answered with the patience of stone:

“No year is gnu. Only we are.

Time is a circle drawn by creatures who fear wandering.

But we— we are wanderers.”

The herd stamped once, twice,

a rhythm older than calendars,

a beat that shook the bones of the plain.

Then from the shadow of a termite mound

stepped a smaller figure—

a gnu with eyes like polished obsidian,

known only as Little Misrule.

She carried no fear, only mischief,

and a single blade of grass between her teeth.

“Let the humans keep their calendars,” she said.

“We keep the song.”

And with that, she struck the first chord—

a low, resonant note that rolled across the savanna

like a storm remembering its purpose.

The herd joined her,

their voices weaving a Doomgrass anthem

that bent the horizon into a trembling line.

The sky cracked open,

not with lightning,

but with possibility.

And as the first light of the Gnu Year

spilled across the world,

Thundermane spoke the ancient benediction:

“Run boldly. Graze wisely.  

Fear no turning of the sun.  

For every year is gnu  

to the one who chooses to begin again.”

The herd surged forward,

a living river of hooves and hope,

and the plains echoed with their song—

a hymn to the wild,

a chant to the uncounted days,

an epic stamped into the dust:

**Doomgrass forever.  

Gnu Year eternal.**