Here, in a clearing carpeted with pastel streamers, the herd has gathered. Note that they are almost entirely female. The males, when present at all, drift to the edges of the territory, clustering near the cold beverages, uncertain of their role in the ritual to come.
At the center sits our subject, the gravid female, unmistakable, ushered to the largest chair and draped in a paper sash that marks her status for all to see. She will not forage today. Food is brought to her. This is the one season of her life when the entire herd conspires to keep her still.
Watch now as the offerings accumulate at her feet: soft fabrics, tiny garments, objects whose purpose she cannot yet fully know. She holds each one aloft. The herd responds with a synchronized vocalization, a rising coo that ripples through the assembly like wind across the savanna grass. It is a call older than language, meaning simply: we see the coming young, and we are ready.
Then comes the strangest display of all. A female approaches with a vessel of something soft and beige, and the herd bends close, murmuring, as they attempt to divine, from its scent and texture alone, whether it is edible dessert or ointment for the newborn. The specimen laughs. She does not yet know either.
And through it all, the gravid female sits at the center of her circle, ringed by every female who has walked this path before her, each of them leaning in, each remembering.
She believes they have gathered for the child.
In truth, they have gathered for her, to stand watch one last time before the long, sleepless season begins.