“Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” - F. Scott Fitzgerald 

Mayhap it’s the burgundy of the leaves
The gentle whistling and trilling of cardinals nearby
Or the lulling calls of a mourning dove from above 
‍
From her den the lioness is motionless as she gazes outside
Eager to catch one of these birds she hears, in flight
Blood pools around her, she is aghast at her restless desire, 
her desire to pounce, to flee from this scene before her.
But sits, the lioness does. She crouches.  
Confused, she is unmoored. 

The blood congeals and still, she remains.
She, this lioness, is not without heartache.
Tentative, she reaches toward the sticky blood, 
just to feel that it is real.  She is restless but immovable.
She licks the damp salt from her lips, 
bares her teeth and roars.  A mournful moan. 

Auburn leaves litter the ground outside the window where a mourning dove perched above, looking in hears the lioness cry. 

Published 16th January, 2022.