Zebra, shaggy wildebeest, countless in their number,

Untold thousands in miles-long loose formation

Alternately graze then press forward in timeless cadence.

Which one leads?  To whose direction do the beasts respond?

Through change of vanguard the call remains constant.

Dumbly unaware of shifting leadership, the rearguard follow.
 

Random birthing, feeding, rutting within its ranks,

Deters for not an instant progress of the herd.
 

Predators, in symbiotic brotherhood, flank the living mass.

Hyena, pride of lion, wild dog, follow in hungry company.

Suffocating jaws clamp struggling throat, its bleat stifled.

The pride feeds, even as dark hooves kick in feeble protest.

Injured, old or unlucky, the prey falls in isolated terror.

The herd closes, with scarce a ripple, to heal the empty place.
 

With no remorse or grief, the deadly sport is played.

One life, or ten, is insignificant in the numbers game.
 

Human beings, intent on wealth or hedonistic pleasure,

Group in vast assembly in pursuit of ease or sensual stimulation.

In mindless precision, march; in obedience, follow the flock.

Dictated, chameleon goals lure the lusting, grasping pilgrimage.

All move in common purpose to possess the trinket of the moment,

Caring not who ordains the need or what fearful price is paid.
 

Random birthing, feeding, rutting, within its ranks,

Deters, for not an instant, progress of the herd.
 

Selves, not fang or claw, menace the naive, the rash, the weary.

Fierce competition rages for a place of fleeting notice.

Wary and covetous eyes calculate advantage over neighbor.

Out-maneuver; contest a step; if need be, trample underfoot.

Mankind, its own worst predator, savage in territorial dispute,

Fell many of its species -- unnoticed -- and the trek continues.
 

With no remorse or grief, the deadly sport is played.