Photo by Sven Liebchen
A crimson slash across a bleeding horizon
cuts the dark plains in time for feeding.
On padded paws of purple night he flows
like artist’s paint from dark to light
and back again unknown, to merge and blend
in every jungle scene where primal urge
is sheathed in deadly stealth and cunning
and easy glides when every prey is running.
By Richard G. Beyer (for Susan Wilson)
This poem was kindly shared by our friend "Bwana Africa"