Morning charmed by a plethora of big cats.
Two males, five females, seven nearly full-grown young.
The maned males sit apart, sentries, clad in iron, tensile, tails twitching, far away eyes.
The females lounge with languor. Eyes are slits or closed. They the sister- hood of hunters, spent from last night’s zebra run with nil for themselves, for their young, and for the males.
The hides of three are marred with surface scratches from skirmishes with playful young. The largest lioness bears half healed wounds from bringing down a buffalo goring with its last breaths.
Three of the young clump around the alpha female. One butts her head, one licks her wounds, one asleep on its back. Three others are entangled heads and limbs.
The hides of three are marred with surface scratches from skirmishes with playful young. The largest lioness bears half healed wounds from bringing down a buffalo goring with its last breaths.
Three of the young clump around the alpha female. One butts her head, one licks her wounds, one asleep on its back. Three others are entangled heads and limbs.
The seventh grown young lion lies apart. At first glance it appears female, except for the emerging tufts of droopy blonde hair on the back of his thick head.
When the savanna goes dry five of the young will not survive.
