The Lion

Lions sniff the air at midnight,
nostrils draw in the sweet smells of savagery.
No rush.  Let the enticement come slowly on the
conspirator breeze.  The deer and her fawn
are not aware of the golden eyes squinting into the darkness
as the majestic creature's respiration sinks to 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, 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.