In Like a lion…

Concolor, mamalia, libertatum.

Glowing golden eyes hunting the tar black night. Loose furred pelt, undulating over taught muscle wrapped bone. Sinew and cartilage stretching connective tissues; silent, predatory and cautious. Historically roaming these woods, more kin to a common housecat; reclusive, nocturnal, solitary.

Now traveling the underground arteries in secret, flowing between broad rural tracts and narrow wildlife reserves, avoiding human encroachment that blots up every natural space like a sponge absorbs a pesky spill, you collapse the distance between present and past; stalking, ambushing, gorging; advancing.

You know our woods do not go on forever, remember where forever began and can see the end, just over the next daybreak, or possibly the next. Habitat like mirages evaporating in the sun of human progress. And still you come, traversing interstates in secret, passing pressed close to the clapboard siding, crouched beneath closed windows, unknowing inhabitants within, gathered around hearths believing their superiority, whistling past the graveyards of crumbling civilizations propped up on thinning supplies of fossil fuels.

Marten and fox beware the unstoppable procession, set to motion at a time before time when earth spun on a different axis; they know, in this vernal hour, their season is ended. Puma Capricornensis, proud messenger, driven now to secret, we welcome you on your sacred mission, unaffected by time, as though time could ever be upended by man! Because still, every year you arrive, summoned by Eostre, to spill the blood of winter and leave in his place the virgin lamb of spring.


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