A lion pawed over
the African sky to
carve these mountains:
rustic dust, royal oranges,
swooping hills the color
of red earth and plantains.
A springbok gazes yonder,
grazes dirt so fine it could
sieve through cheesecloth.
They haven’t seen this beauty,
their breath beats erratically
the pathetic motion of ostriches
noodling to the ground. For them,
a mere box turtle was exciting.
Today, they sleep on stone terraces,
shower under a herd of stars,
neverminding the nightlife
mingling with their moist skin.
Who will be louder? A lion’s roar
or twenty gasps of wonderment
waking up to the sight of giraffes
gently nuzzling their leafy treetops?