you see in pictures and at the zoo,
who is a time-worn lion, even having left
his share of the running and killing to
lionesses, lighter and more intent.
The lion lies arranged upon a rock
or curled, tail twitching, in the dirt,
or stands a while, back sagging,
staring off into the middle distance
or pacing a bit, back and forth,
forth and back, and you notice
that he is a trifle gaunt,
dust flying from his shaken mane,
with flies in his eyes, and fleas,
and something painful in his paw.
You could suppose,
zoo or no zoo, that this lion
is witnessing most of what he knows
thinning, drying, blurring in the air.
But who can say what a lion considers.
There is something still sovereign
in the way he paces back and forth,
forth and back, with the big pads
of his forepaws placed and placed again,
splaying on his footholds.
Whatever he had to give, he has given:
voice, vigil, hunch of haunch. The trails
are worn, the prey agile, fast, or unfamiliar.
The sun is warm, the smooth stone shaded,
the arid season surrounds him,
and so I am wondering
whether these flies that plague his eyes
in ways that would craze a beast less simplified
are in fact easily tolerated as they carry off
the moisture of his unblinking gaze.
~~~~~~~~~~
Douglas Logan
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