Stampede On The 1%

How easy it is for a pride of lions
to divide and conquer
a herd of cape buffalo,
corralling them with fear
until their united stride dissolves
and they scatter, their power and
momentum disorganized, chaotic,
a buffalo by itself tackled, wrestled
to the ground, torn apart,
and ultimately forgotten by
the grateful survivors
until the pride inevitably hungers again.
There may be safety in numbers,
and the odds may seem in your favor
as you look among the dull-eyed creatures
among which you count yourself,
but how much better it would be
if the herd rallied together
and stampeded into the pride,
trammeling them under hoof, goring
with their hundred-horned fury
the predators that have hunted and
haunted them for generations
just along the peripheries
rather than fleeing for a time
and then settling down again,
often within sight of the pride
as if almost in chummy camaraderie;
as if the crimson-stained snouts
did not hint at the true nature
of our sharp-toothed masters.

And our own culling complicity.

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