The Tiger,
Silent as a wraith,
Merges into the shadows
Of the jungle.
Is he there – or isn’t he?
Maybe it’s just the movement
Of a bird rustling the dry leaves…
Or perhaps the wind itself.
Who knows?…
Except the Peacock,
On a branch high up,
Who alone sees those wide paws
And sinuous body below the scrub;
Rust red and white,
The huge head with golden,
Piercing eyes
Ablaze…
And a long swishing tail,
Periodically scaring the flies
That impudently try
And settle on its flanks.
The King – magnificent – rests now.
But soon, as the Sun rapidly sinks
below the western horizon
And the tree frogs begin to croak,
He will be on the prowl,
Looking for a young, tender
Morsel – or two –
On which to feed.
