chest-beating
Often, when visitors come to see me, they beat their hands against their puny chests, pretending to be me.
They pound away, soundless as the wet wings of a new butterfly.
The chest beating of a mad gorilla is not something you ever want to hear. Not even if you’re wearing earplugs.
Not even if you’re three miles away, wearing earplugs.
A real chest beating sends the whole jungle running, as if the sky has broken open, as if men with guns are near.