Poetry

A crow flies croaking in the game park,
indignant about vultures that descent,
where they act out their antics, pecking,
at remains left by the lions.
I stay detecting through the open window,
and drive a day’s journey past gigantic trees of teak
drink ice cold cool drink while we talk pleasantly
and I notice zebras, elephants, a leopard and then this:
three lion cubs that eat voracious, unhindered,
and they look as innocent as small kitten
with the sun touching their fur with patches
until the male roars, makes its presence known.
A crow flies croaking in the game park,
at remains left by the lions.