The Watering Hole

Narrowed eyes,
In grass, disguised,
The lion licks his lips.

Aware, alert,
Gazelles tap dirt
As they take cautious sips.

The lion, crouched,
Awaits the pounce
That brings him to his prey.

With muscles tense,
In thickets dense,
He dawdles, daring fate.

But then, the jump;
Like piston pump,
The lion roars his thunder.

With flashing teeth,
Escape is brief
And flesh is torn asunder.

The ones who flee—
The escapees—
With fear, like fire burning,

From here on know
This wat’ring hole
Is deadly for returning.

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