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Amidst the lush green ferns a tiger,
With its glowing cat eyes
In the shadow rests and pants,
Harvests scents, sifts the jungle
For what aroma or movement signifies
Some fleet and passing chance.
High above the drumming rains percolate
Down through the great Mahoganies
At last to form a single drop upon that fern
By which the tiger waits
Tossed aside by fetid breath through hungry teeth
It never makes the thirsty loam beneath.
Now you rest upon his lands,
A reach away from his embrace,
Feeling the near safety of his care-worn hands.
I wonder if there are tigers in that place.