A full account of the single-horned, large-haunched nation called white rhinoceros had its number reduced yesterday by one, bringing sum total of that particular census down to five.

Analifu  passed from our lives on the western coast of a continent thousands of miles from his African home.  I hope in his final moments came a dry hot wind.  An wind blown across an ocean, across a continent; a wind intent on finding and holding a precious native son.

Pieta - oh I insist on this - an African wind become pieta filled with the scent of his tribe's favorite things:  the special savannah grasses grown sweet, the glorious mudhole, the acacia tree equally perfect for rubbing or rendezvous.  The dust-filled heat of sun.  The moon's siren call. His sister. His brother. The small white bird who once rode his back:  unfettered, unfenced, both of them knowing nothing of distance other than endlessness.

Be free, again, dear Analifu.  Like you, one day I will dissolve into the great consciousness from which I came.  My pleasure is to think it will include you.