a lioness on the prowl,

through the grasses and among the trees as the

sun's

last

rays dip,

kissing the leaves goodnight

and blanketing them in velvety dark.

I don't see her;

I instead

feel her amber eyes

watching me,

her nose scenting me.

I'm not afraid

of the one who will deliver the killing frost

to Summer's green gazelle neck,

for she has restless Winter,

her cub,

waiting for a meal, ensconced in the den.

I,

in my humanity,

do not think it barbarous;

fooling myself that it is only nature and

forgetting

the endless days of grey and rain,

ignoring the pall of Autumn's reign,

longing for

her icy, sandpaper tongue

to strip the flesh from my bones

and lay my innards bare,

a buffet for cubs

and ravens alike.