Down at the Waterhole

Long ago a colourful range of animals gathered at the water hole, in a wary truce of necessity. The water nullified traditional enmities, and allowed them to drink deeply, fortified for another round of internecine blood lust. 

A large, well spoken naturalist would always be present to witness the later tearing of limbs, and to lament its passing in the name of industrial progress. But, as the years floated by, things began to change.

Now, there are only two groups left at the water hole; the apes and the dogs. The apes are naked, saving a few patches of vestigial fur and curious coverings of insufficient cloth. They are poor, yet fat, clever but unproductive, weak but loud. They wade in poisonous water, surrounded by bloated turds, and the detritus of a previous age.

The plastic age.

They barge each other out of the way, as they search for something unknown, and unknowable. They have eyes of stone, like strawberries from abroad, and they dream of starring in old zombies films. They call the water hole 'society'.

The old naturalist is still watching.

And the old anthropologist is watching too.