It looked over the edge of the cliff then raised it's luminous eyes to the cloudless blue sky. Sniffing the air, it turned its head to the right and left slowly, scanning its surroundings, waiting. It was impatient with its waiting, pawing the ground and pacing, its tail flagging. What was it doing there alone on the point of the precipice? I focused my binoculars on the plateau around him. Only grass. No other impalas were in sight and no predators lurking that I could detect. The impala continued to . . . to wait and to pace.

     Hunkered down in the African savannah, I was on the opposing ridge but the eyesight of the impala was more acute than mine. I didn't want to move and risk spooking him. I wanted to see what he was waiting for and stretched out full-length on my stomach, moving to avoid the lumps of earth beneath me. Now comfortable and molded to the ground, I trained my glasses on the unusual, jagged, barren cliff face on the far side. I could not determine the kind of geologic forces which had separated the earth here. The small gorge did not appear to have been cut by water or rifting and glacial gouging was unlikely in this area. The image of a giant lion claw ripping the earth apart imposed itself on my thoughts.

     In the center of the narrow valley floor far below, a small, winding stream shone like a sparkling silver thread with patches of sparse brush at its edges. Along its length there were occasional scrawny thickets of twisted trees with little foliage. I detected some movement in one of the thickets and strained my eyes to determine what caused it. No discernable shapes emerged and I finally decided it had been the wind moving the knurled limbs.

     The breeze on the ridge top was growing stronger and the grasses next to me rustled as if thousands of mouse feet were rushing away from the edge of the cliff. That coarse blades were beautiful, shining in the sun like a green sea complete with waves as alive as any you see in the ocean. I loved this country and its hot, unrelenting sun. Life here was hard and for those who survived, both man and beast, their only reward was the knowledge that they had escaped death. I'm not sure what it is that compels me to come back but I always do. Every year I come to observe the life-and-death struggle with the land and the elements and record the changes and events. For twenty years now I have watched and, unlike the rest of the world, this region seems untouched by technology. It stretches back through aeons of time and, seemingly, continues toward the future in the same way that it started. Seasons and years are marked only by droughts and floods. It makes me appreciate what I have in my world and, at the same time, calls me to try to survive here. To pit my wits and skill against nature itself. I have never had the courage, though. When I married and had children I had a reason not to try, but in my heart I know it is only an excuse.

     I looked back at the impala still poised on the far cliff. Except for the rippling of his flanks, he now looked like a statue he stood so motionless on his long, slender legs. But he still seemed to be waiting for something. Everything about him was alert. The sight of the single impala, an animal which usually runs and grazes in herds, had arrested me from my original scrutiny of the land. I first abandoned my jeep when I noticed the ridge. I thought I knew all of this expanse intimately but I had somehow missed the canyon. It was even more curious because it was not on the map. I had grabbed only my binoculars when I braked and hopped out, planning a brief survey which I could mark on my own map for future reference. Then I had seen the magnificent impala.

     Over the years I had grown used to spending long periods of time in observation and had given up being impatient. That was the most positive aspect of this passion of mine. My wife was the first to notice and comment on the difference as my patience improved generally. I smiled thinking now how impatient she sometimes seemed in dealing with our children. That wasn't fair, though, since she never had the luxury of getting away from the immediate pressures of a family like I did. Some day I would bring her here with me. When the kids were grown and gone from home, we would have years to explore my beloved Africa together. I never doubted that she would love it as much as I did. We could live out my fantasies here in the hot sun and the undulating grass. In my fantasies we are always young and limber. I sincerely hoped that life reflected dreams.

     But now here was this unusually large, single impala and I forgot about the curiosity of the canyon and the ridges in my concentration on the animal. Although he remained motionless, something about him made me catch my breath. I knew instinctively that something momentous was happening. Then the impala leaped. Without even bending his knees he simply rose into the air with his front hooves stretching up before him and his back legs following strong and powerful. I, too, leaped up as if I could stop that unbelievable jump. The impala could not possibly leap the canyon, he would plummet to his death below!

     "NOOOOOO," exploded through my head like a bolt of lightening yet, though my mouth was open, I made no sound. The screaming "No" trailed off like a dying echo, its light and sound fading with the knowledge that the impala was NOT falling. The creature was, in fact, soaring higher and higher in a wide, slow spiral. I realized I was holding my breath and forced myself to exhale slowly. My mind was a blank as I watched what could not possibly be happening. The impala was flying. FLYING! No wings, nothing to support him, he soared gracefully banking first left and then right, riding the currents of the wind in the way an eagle does, beneath the glowing orb of the sun. I shaded my eyes and watched him climb to an incredible height, a small spot in the sky, and then grow larger again as he descended slowly, gracefully.

     He was directly across from me and through my binoculars I could see the sleek white blaze of his face which tapered to his flaring nostrils and the unique angle of his horns gleaming like gold in the sun, their tips pointing heavenward. As I watched, the impala flinched and then folded. His regal head drooped limply to his chest and his legs, which moments before had been stretched in a graceful arch, now hung flaccid, pointing toward earth. His eyes closed and his nose ceased its flare, his tail flat against his rump. Although his descent remained slow, he was now obviously falling. I heard the shots, finally, and looked belatedly to the valley floor once more. There were a couple of men visible there now and more emerging from one of the thickets. The sun glinted off of their rifle barrels and they were leaping excitedly, two rifles held aloft in jubilation. The formed a ring, awaiting the arrival of the impala. I watched from the cliff, an impotent observer, unable to stop or change the events I witnessed. I was almost overcome with fury and rage. Although I couldn't see their knives, I knew when they slit his throat when a rivulet of bright red wound its way across the sand and into the creek, staining it ruby red. Bile rose in my throat as I watched them lash the legs of the fallen impala to a long branch. Two men shouldered the limb and began moving off, following the stream, away from the lengthening red stain. If I had had my rifle I might have shot all of them without remorse for killing the incredible impala.

     I watched until they disappeared around a bend in the stream which was now a blood red thread, echoing the rays from the setting sun. Returning to my Jeep, I found my camera laying on the floor where I had left it and my rifle was still slung in its rack behind the seat. My arms and legs were stiff and my stomach was growling. I hadn't had anything to eat or drink for hours. My throat was parched. I carefully unscrewed the cap of my canteen and forced myself to take a long, stabilizing drink of warm, stale water to dislodge the obstacle in my throat and wash the taste out of my mouth. I had no pictures, no trophy, no proof whatsoever of what I had seen. It was unbelievable even to me and I had watched it. Some of the beauty of Africa had died with the impala, with the brutality and stupidity of men who refused to acknowledge a miracle. I felt drained and just wanted to get back to camp.

     He climbed into his jeep, turned on the lights and drove slowly toward the glowing red edge of the sun, a fiery ember on the horizon. In his despair over the death of the impala, he had forgotten to check his bearings and mark the location on his map. Behind him, the ocean of grass, now dark in the dusk, flowed in a new direction, opposite to that of the day. Its waves rose and fell, chasing each other across the endless, unbroken savannah.