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.

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