The Afternoon of Savannahs

A lion in crave with nothing.
The springbok are fleet, and
The hartebeests already gone this season.
The sheepish things that don't live here,
Don't live here.

A lion in a crave without
Spending the afternoon in a pant
Under a heat of brush.
No scents in the wind, and
No springbok, no hartebeest, no creek.
The land is wide and unlush.

A lion in crave with
A brown blood dried flank
Poached poorly by a caliber,
Then hiding away
Under hot brush.

With thirst he went,
And went away.


A lion without crave
Was tracked in his skin
By a boy who watched
The sky swagging birds
As they dropped
To the heap
Of his nodding slump.