The lion came to my room, almost.
Morning revealed her prints,
large toe pads next to the ebony poles
that hefted our tent above dry grass.
I welcomed her as kin come to claim me.
Had she roared that I belonged
in this wilderness? If she didn’t return that night
I‘d be a stray wildebeest on these endless plains.
Nearby a midden of antelope
dung spread out like a surfeit of caviar,
miniature black eggs gleaming under the early light.
I rued the sun or rain that would dull them.
At night a campfire of scrap ebony
felled by hungry elephants burned fiercely.
We huddled around it to dissuade
insects. The brightness of Venus rendered.
all of us small. Except for Daniel
the sharp-shooter anti-poacher manager
of Acacia Camp. He tucked us in
around our shoulders and under our feet,
with red tartan Massai robes warmed
by the fire. It would be a lesser evil
if the last rhino and elephant died
rather than be confined in a zoo,
any zoo. A small missile flashed
through the dark, landed on his chest
and clung to his shirt. It was a bat
that hid its face. I stood
and stroked its soft brown fur,
wondered at its smallness,
its seeming tameness. The group,
this tribe of visitors like me,
smiled and uttered tributes:
Karibu! Batgirl! Assante!
The lion need not return.
She could loll with her pride.