Lion in Winter

He sits, licking his paws, cracked-egg eyes regarding the world, and he ponders his trip, so long but so short it has been. It wasn’t like this long ago, tumbling in tall grass head over tail with other cubs, by tooth and claw soon making the pride his own, his days as king, big, bold, brave, roar heard for miles, mammon and power clutched tight to his chest, lionesses trembling under the weight of his prowess, males standing subservient, in awe of his grandeur, dining on prey so patiently stalked, then sleeping the full-bellied sleep. As all the while, wisps of dreams half recollected, the reptilian years slithered in and in silence conducted their business, injected their venom, gradually affected their insidious coup. Now it is he the sick wildebeest cast to the fringe of the herd, awaiting his end at the hands of the hungry and strong, hyenas they are the worst, and he wonders how it went wrong. The light grows dimmer over the savanna and he closes his eyes, slips back in time, sighs, now at precarious peace, and waits for whatever will be.