By Steven Wade Veatch
Above the mammoth the sky turns red
as the sun rose, rising from its dawn bed.
Soon the mighty beast would know,
A new day starts where sheets of ice flow.
as the sun rose, rising from its dawn bed.
Soon the mighty beast would know,
A new day starts where sheets of ice flow.
It was spring—a cold time of year—
when mammoths keep their young near.
A mammoth mother follows an ancient trail
with her young in tow, so tiny and so frail.
Survival is not easy and is based largely on luck.
As days lengthen and spring brings mud and muck.
The insects buzz, grass turns green, and buds burst.
Warmth brings pools of water to slake the mammoth’s thirst.
There’s been no sign of Smilodon—nothing yet to fear.
The woodlands are quiet, only a sloth might appear
The herds move together with their young for protection,
but they make too much noise, unable to avoid detection.
A Smilodon comes to a halt, and smells the air,
and the mammoths take off in a thundering scare.
The herd will live in peace for another day
As they rule the land and make their way.
