Here’s a spoiler: the wildebeest gets away.
Four lion cubs mewl until sundown.
The setting sun is a predictable, coveted red. 
You know the waterhole bursts with grief.
You know wading birds stretch further north,
and salmon abandon fresher waters, caking
their gills with salt. The polar bear appears,
a ring of gosling down around his mouth.
Always these vast spaces –
these grasslands, these ice sheets, these hidden
benthic zones. I always spot you at the end
of the vastest parking lot, my shadow
longer than your height.  

Ask the flamingo picking out pink slivers of brine shrimp, blue
is a structural color. I cannot gain it from downing quantities of bluejays.
It is not in my ribcage, though I suspect my abdomen is mostly blue  -
this, a hypothesis formed upon seeing fingers streaked with plumes of the bluest
chalk. The sidewalk was overwhelmed with bluebonnets.  
I could not speak through this mouthful of blueberries.
As if torn, my viscera called out in wonder.