The Lion

The lion sniffs the air at midnight,
nostrils draw in the sweet smells of savagery.
No rush. Let the enticement come slowly on the
conspirator wind. The deer and her fawn
are unaware of the golden eyes squinting into
the darkness, oblivious to the majestic one’s
soft breathing now turning into shallow, sinister
sounds, little puffs that move the red-matted
short hair along the elegant jawline.

With fluid ease, he rises muscle by muscle,
limb by limb, onto padded paws that conceal
razors sharpened by bone and sinew.
Death is not a game with the lion. It is
surgical precision, with the first cut made
when the anesthesia of fear has done its
work and a merciful numbness filters
through muscle and mind. The prey is
poised in a stupor of surrender.

Now comes the first light of the last day
for two graceful deer who walk casually toward
the sweet grass, plump and moist, near the
stream of revealing, unaware that the reflection
in the mirrored water will be the giant mane,
loosed in the breeze, and sudden darkness.