The Lion

 —for John Davis

There is weather

and a chill

when the lion enters

my yard, in sight

and smell

alive to me as a thief

with gold eyes.

Hesitant? No,

he measures the lawn

with fierce dignity,

on blades sharp

as light, his feet

to green fire.

He owns it…

then curls back

into the brush like a torn piece

of the sun.