When the lions came, she was sitting
at her desk, writing a letter, mundane,
tiring. She placed her pen in its holder and yawned, squeezing
her eyes shut in the process, then opening them very wide. And there they were:
two females, prowling beyond the smokehouse,
near the woodpile. Golden, raw, slightly tatty,
imperious... Placing each paw
with apparent indifference; their tails--thick
as her arm--switched irritably at those ubiquitous,
flies, glossy and vicious; their eyes, ancient, and
utterly devoid of mercy. She jumped at
the sharp knock on her door, repressed
annoyance when the handle rattled.
When she returned to the window, they had gone,
leaving her abashed, sensing that she had been
observed, found lacking, and carelessly dismissed.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
Photo: Bjørn Christian Tørrissen
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