Racists

He'd known it wouldn't be a picnic with a vintage red, they'd likely stone the girl with hatred burning cruel eyes. Yes, this was Africa, the land of all the creatures Noah saved, of open space and sudden death within the jungle and on open plains, life did renew itself, eternally, a spring of nectar, red as blood, and bright reflecting crystals of hot sand and gushing with the sound of streams that never would survive the season. He'd picked a gaunt and mostly dead tree called the Jackalberry, home at times to hungry vultures of indifferent persuasion, they would be safe from lions and the like. He hurried on, swinging his satchel which contained the scones and dates and one small bottle of Shiraz, a dry and spicy Joostenberg, twothousandfour. He spotted her, a flowery dress, a flag of sweet surrender, perhaps it was. There was a bloody-mouthed hyena, eating the last few bits of flesh, and bones, and only then he saw the birds of death, all set to pounce, with hurried elegance. It was the lions that had beaten racial hate.