The buffalo was alone, and her solitude was not lost on her, neither was the beauty of the morning. She was once called Flat, and this is the only name she’s ever had.

Dew drops glimmered ecstatically on the pale grass; the sun positioned itself with unusual grace. For another, ants marched in strikingly balletic fashion: circles, twists, jagged lines and all sorts of flairs. Flat stomped her hooves and thought: I have made many acquaintances, but I have been a poor friend. I have some things to remedy.

Flat knew what had to be done: she would have to visit an old friend. The friend, a man, never gave his name to Flat. Flat never asked. The man was a superb whittler and with it, a fine flautist. Flat would seek him out. And she had an inkling as to his whereabouts: There was an old tree, right over the hills, a point of pilgrimage for some antelope. The tree was encircled by sweeter grass than most of these plains. And Flat’s good friend in turn was a good friend of the tree. Yes! This was where she had to go.

Flat knew it was no short walk, and so, with a bent neck, lapped up dew from the grass. This was good, so, slowly walking, she repeated the motion several times until reaching the top of the first small hill. From here, Flat moved to the horizon, with the sun to her left. As noon approached, the sun lost its morning grace, now seeming almost angry. Flat felt this anger to be more pronounced than the day before, or the day before that.

Flat walked and walked. It got no easier after noon. The heat baked into the soil so that it became like a sun shining upward from the earth. One could not tell from looking at the buffalo, but Flat was exhausted and her legs ached like never before. Age had gained on Flat, this was true, but she thought herself a fool for not stopping at noon, for not finding shade. It dawned on Flat that this rush to meet her friend was likely all for nothing – she had no reason not to stop, to quit even.

Then, momentarily resting under the weight of doubt, the buffalo closed her eyes. With light shut out, the sounds of her heartbeat, her breathing, and that of insects laboring through the grass, faded into one another as an aural cloud. It was as if a dense fog overcame Flat’s mind. She lost her desire to seek out her friend. She now thought herself a fool for going through so much effort on a whim. Why would a buffalo do this? Her friend has lived his life since their last meeting, has surely made other friends and has other matters to attend to. What was the idea behind this meeting but a way to close a circuit in Flat’s mind?

In all it didn’t matter, because, as she opened her eyes, she noticed that she had already arrived just to the side of the tree. Only now the tree appeared somewhat shrunken to her. Her friend was playing a strange flute that enmeshed itself with the sounds of the insects in the grass, a tone and melody bringing all together into a singular wave of sound, as a choir that praised the origin of its own voice.

Flat shook her body from her hooves upward, she was in someone’s presence now, and adjusted herself to reflect this awareness.

He saw her and called out “Flat, I knew I’d see you soon.”

“How?” Flat asked. “Well,” her friend cleared his throat, “I always saw you in times like these when the rains came early. For years now, the rains have been late, and I did not see you.”

Flat nodded in understanding.

“Still, the rains were too heavy this year, the plains to the west were completely drowned, mosquitoes consumed beasts whole, and the mud was so dark, the sky appeared to match its color.”

Flat did not quite understand this, as she didn’t see anything of the like.

Her friend’s eyes wandered, almost bounced in its sockets, scanning from ground to sky. A termite crawled from his elbow towards his shoulder, went over and presumably back into the termite hill behind him. The tree arose from within the termite hill, its ancient dry roots visible as it weaved in and out from the red earth. It was on such a root the man took his seat. For the most part, the termites didn’t bother him.

They were silent together for a few notches of the sun’s trek. And then, for a few seconds, he played his flute, its tone unlike anything Flat has ever heard, yet perfectly in harmony with the surrounding fields, like the hiss and squeak of an insect one has never seen, but which one knows is perfectly in its place.

When he lowered the flute, he asked “surely, Flat, having come all this way, you have at least something to share with me”.

Flat looked down and felt embarrassed to admit the thought that she allowed to take the reins that morning - the thought that she desired to be a better friend. Truthfully, she didn’t know whether that actually was her motivation, it merely seemed a fair reason at the time of departure.  “I thought of you, I wanted to see you” she finally said.

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“Of course,” her friend replied.

Some silence prevailed once again.

“The wind will pick up soon, I’ve been waiting some weeks, but it is about to happen” the old man announced, “I’m sure you are aware also, that my life is coming to a close”. Unsure how to respond, Flat took a step closer, and let out a near inaudible grunt.

“Would you like to visit my wife?” the old man asked.

“I didn’t know you had a wife.”

“O, yes, we came together only on rare occasions, and it was never near here. There’s a great road, a highway, a place of incredible speed, cutting through these plains. Have you seen it?”

“Once, I saw something like you describe at a distance, but all movement I could see was from it, not towards. I decided to stay away just the same.”

“I met with her only where the road crossed the river, where her quarry laid. You should seek her out.

Once again, they were silent and, after some time passed, the old man played his flute. His melody now seemed to converse with the sun’s fall, more alien than the tune of grass he played before. He played until last light and stopped only when the pitch black completely encased the plains. By then, Flat was already asleep. There were no predators nearby that night.

At dawn, Flat’s friend was gone. She looked around, encircled the tree, but there were no signs of him besides a pair of footsteps that stopped only a few steps into grass, and his flute lying on the ground between two of the tree’s roots. Flat sighed.  Once again, Flat felt her own foolishness. She had no reason to be at this tree. Yesterday, she should have done nothing but graze, today, the same. Now she was in a place she didn’t know very well, and she felt exceedingly tired, even though she slept longer than she normally would. It seemed as though the way back from where she came was uphill, and she simply couldn’t see herself going that way.

Flat resolved to stay by the tree as long as she deemed necessary. The surrounding veld would make for good grazing and the tree provided more than ample shade. Moreover, she quickly discovered that, every few hours, a small stream of water would run from the tree’s trunk, clean and cool. And so, on that day, Flat moved very little.

Thoughts of her friend would spring to mind, but never could she conclude how she felt or what to make of his disappearance. As someone she didn’t see in years, it felt as if it made no difference that he was gone again. Yet on the other hand, would he have disappeared from this tree had she not visited? And of course, the question – was he dead? Or where was he? She alternated between feeling a vague sense of responsibility and feeling that she was only a witness to something rather incomprehensible and beyond response.

For several days Flat grazed around the tree, drank its water and only thought of her friend in passing, until, one windy day, she looked at the flute, bent her neck and tried to lift it from the ground with her horns, only to have it fall down the moment she raised her neck. She struggled for some time, realizing finally it was simply impossible for her to balance it on her head, neck or back. As such, she started kicking it up against the tree’s roots, trying position it as to easily lift it with her mouth. But, by her third attempt she accidentally stepped on the flute, and it snapped in half.

For several minutes she gazed at the broken instrument as the wind gently sang its path through the halves. This, Flat thought, was likely closer to music than she could have made with it anyhow. It crossed her mind that if she was suited to do anything, it was to stay on the move. Her friend could make music, he could entertain his guests, could convince you stay there by him. He could anchor his memories to a place and pull them from there into conversation. Flat could not remember anything, she could only recall the rhythms of distances covered. That then - crossing the plains - was what she knew she would do in the future as well.

Still, the didn’t want to move from here just yet. And so, another day passed. And another. And another… And one day she noticed two lappet-faced vultures building their nest at the very top of the tree. They were meticulous in their coordination, never putting a foot in the way of one another. They brought dry twigs, patches of fur and pieces of bone – all these little dead items – and assembled them into a bed of embrace for new life.

They paid no heed to Flat and Flat did not think to disturb them.

She observed the vultures for many days, learning their calls, witnessing their utter dedication. Once the eggs were laid, she noticed the vultures alternating roles to keep the eggs warm. In doing this, the vulture waiting by the nest would calmly stare over the plains, proud, guarding their treasure, their precious labor. Seeing the vultures so calm in their duties, Flat could not help but feel herself playing a role, unspoken though the arrangement was, protecting the vultures’ eggs at the base, giving them all the more reason to maintain a serene frame of mind.

At this time, Flat’s mind was free from the troubles that plagued her ever since she set out to visit her friend here at the tree. Thought slowly left her mind altogether as she fell into a rhythm of grazing the perimeter and guarding the tree at the center. If thought came to her, it involved only the pair of vultures and their nest.

It was a daily rhythm Flat was all too happy to follow. To her it felt her friend was still following the tune he played upon her arrival. Flat, the insects, the grass, the tree, the vultures, the sun, they were as music together.

And then the humidity came, followed by black clouds and the rumble of thunder. There was a swelling gust and flocks of birds all heading in the same direction. In the end, it was lightning and fire, not the hatching of vulture chicks, which ended this saga. The vultures themselves escaped, but the tree, the nest and the eggs would become part of new story, as ash.