Tiger decants himself from the branch on which he has been lying, eases his way through the filigree of light and vines that provide sanctuary to the inhabitants of the garden, and lies in a patch of grass, a perfect halo of buttercups gentling his head. Above him fieldfare and sparrows swoop in and out of his vision, ribboning the sky with their grainy flight. Tiger has a passion for small birds and, in spite of himself, begins to purr. That the day sees fit to offer him the miraculous renewal of delight seems itself a gift. Meadowsweet and wild mint release their perfume in serpentine sockets of bliss. Tiger hums his passionata, deep and low, for these are his glory hours, revealed in the perfect splendour of the inculcate wholeness of the hunt.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
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