Sit Alone on a Rock in Mountain Lion Territory

sit alone on a rock in mountain lion territory. imagine him stretching cold air
as clouds cascade from his cavernous mouth. want to move seats. stake your
reign on a rock round and soft above a gravel road. see yellow aspen hang
like a canopy above the lion’s throne. see distant fields (so unlike your
dusky trudges) and lights glinting on a horizon. columbines dance at your
feet, a tufted squirrel bows his head. be a king. see the mountain lion set
the sun as gold willows shake bright foil leaves onto your lap. laugh a mutinous
laugh on the lion’s perch as mossy ears peep over the granite ledge and see you
small you, dusty you, on his throne. see him pad behind you like a cold flash
green eyes, ash wet coat, a knight in the evening. see him lower now until
his white beard grazes his soil with liquid movements of tree-bud youth and
sedimentary age. the pines grow rigid with attention, gravel doesn’t dare sing.
see him glide near the back of your neck. he commands stone, tells wind to shake
the showy daisies, and tells you to sit still even as you hear his small breath
three feet from your undusted neck.