Here, in the low grey light of morning, the herd gathers. They have travelled great distances, some from neighbouring valleys, some from ranges the others have not seen in years, drawn by a signal older than speech. Watch how they arrange themselves in the vast echoing hall: not by chance, but by ancient hierarchy, the closest kin drawn to the front, the outer members hovering respectfully near the exits, unsure of their standing in the group.
Our subject sits among them, upright, still, hands folded in the lap. Observe the plumage. Across the entire herd, the creatures have shed their bright everyday coats and donned identical dark ones, a rare synchronised moult that occurs only at these solemn convergences. It signals to the others: I too feel this. I am one of you.
Now, the ritual. One by one, they rise and approach the front of the hall, where they speak in low tones about a member of the herd who has gone still, and will not rise again. And here, watch closely. Our subject's throat tightens. The eyes brim. From a small folded cloth kept ready in the pocket, the specimen dabs at the face, then passes the cloth, wordless, to the trembling creature beside it.
This is the great mystery of the species. They know, as all animals know, that one of them has fallen from the herd. And yet they do not simply move on to the next watering hole. They stop. They gather. They sit in a cold room and make the strange leaking sound and hold each other's hands in the dark.
They have learned, over countless generations, that grief carried alone is heavier than grief carried by the herd. So they carry it together.
And then, slowly, they walk out into the light, and go on living.