Crouched in the warm air, she is intertwined with flowers, some red, some blueish or violet ink strokes of divinity
now invisible to all but me
Watching as she digs in the dirt, roling along the edge of the herbs and into the cobblestone pathways
O! What true bliss this must be!
With tiny life, buzzing about her long ears, whiskers brushing up against my outstretched hand
she spots her prey alone in
Malice no! But rather deeply held instincts slew the little beasty!
As we are playthings for the gods, for her the lion was tamed and spoils of war taken in the ebbing afternoon sun
All is well again, as the peace returns to the her world, fallen into place among the roses and wine
Curled up in the delicate arms of Sleep, dreaming of tomorrow, and another hunt in the little garden
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