From the critters near home . . . . to the wildlands beyond.
Wilder Tales are small, gentle stories — meant to be read in a few quiet minutes, enjoyed with a smile, and written and shared simply for the pleasure of observing animals a little less settled, and the wider, wilder world they move through.
Nobody could remember exactly who spotted the tree first.
It might have been one of the older giraffes, the kind who noticed things quietly and mentioned them only after being certain. Or it might have been a younger one, hesitant and unsure, keeping it to themself. But once the breeze shifted, word traveled fast thru the herd.
That tantalizing breeze carried with it the clean, green scent of new leaves — the kind that made every giraffe lift their head and take notice.
And such a fine tree it was — broad-limbed, leafy, and standing just far enough away in the distance to feel like a small victory once reached, its newly sprouted leaves tender and bright, bursting with a green, juicy sweetness no giraffe could ignore.
Most of the herd set off at an easy pace, necks swaying gently, steps unhurried. Leaves, after all, were not known for running away. All things in time.
One giraffe, however, had other ideas.
He decided that if he took the narrow path — the one that dipped beneath a few low-hanging branches — he could arrive first, select the most tasty branch, plant his hooves, and begin munching before anyone else even came into view. The thought pleased him greatly.
He lowered his head, picked up speed, and slipped beneath the trees.
Now, it should be said that giraffes are tall for a reason — to reach the highest leaves other grazers cannot — and not, as it turns out, to go rushing about.
As he ran, he turned his head slightly to see how close the others were behind him.
That was when it happened.
BAM!
The sound echoed just enough to make the birds pause and reconsider their opinions of giraffes altogether.
The branch did not move.
The giraffe did.
He sat down hard, legs folding beneath him in a way legs were never meant to fold, stars swirling somewhere near the clouds. When the dizziness settled, he remained exactly where he was, eyes crossed just enough to be concerning.
Someone fetched the large blue ice pack — the one normally reserved for enthusiastic antelope mishaps — and placed it carefully atop his head.
It took a while.
Eventually, it stayed.
The herd arrived shortly after, calm as ever. They passed him by one at a time, unhurried, on their way toward the tree that had started all the trouble.
No one laughed.
One giraffe tilted her head and said, kindly,
“Well… you did get here first.”
The concussed giraffe with the headache sighed, adjusting the ice pack with one careful hoof.
“Yes,” he said. “But I cannot recommend the route.”
They stood together for a time, leaves rustling softly in the distance, the sun warming backs and branches alike. After a while, the headache eased. The ice pack slid off and landed with a gentle thump at his feet.
He rose slowly, and after a few measured steps joined the others. He proceeded then to eat at the same unhurried pace as everyone else.
The leaves tasted just as good.
Maybe better.
Images have been created for this piece with the assistance of AI . . . . lovingly prepared and styled for Honey Hill Country and the world of Little Red Bear.
Why do I write these? Aw, I don’t know. Just thought it might make you smile.
