We watch them from the forest undergrowth. They park their hulking metal machines on top of the ancient pathways our ancestors trod. We sniff out our old trails, scents lingering from before they arrived, before they destroyed our homeland to build their own.
Dusk falls. Our piglets scrabble in the parched woodland for fragments of sustenance. We glance at our tiny ones, bright-eyed, stripe backed.
Starving.
We lead them to the dustbins to feast on scraps humans have dropped, snuffle our snouts into empty packets scattered along the roadside.
They are gathered in their gardens, under threads of golden lights. We watch them relax in the warmth of the evening, chatter, drink wine, laugh. From the shadows, we barge back onto our historic routes, breaking through their fences and hedges to reclaim our land. Our hoofs plough their irrigated lawns to mud, snacking on roots and worms.
Splash.
Our piglets startle at the squeals of joy as a human child dives into a swimming pool full of water. Drought has left our throats rasping with dryness.
In an instant, our youngest piglet races towards the pool, leaning forward, snout close to the yellow striped body of their child. He laps the water in greedy slurps.
And they shout, the humans. Glasses crash to the ground. A woman dashes to the poolside, where her baby is floating. She stretches out her arms, grabbing at her child. And screams at mine.
Ukh Ukh
I charge towards my piglet, huffing alarm. He returns, pushes his stripey body close to my side. The woman stares, her yellow-striped child tight in her arms. We stare at one another, united in the protective instinct of motherhood.
Around her they are racing, chasing one another into their home, slamming the doors.
We trot on, in the hoofs of our ancestors, steeled by a power we never knew we had.
