Barry Lee Thompson

If I had a lion, I’d train it to eat anyone that wasn’t me. It would just be me and the lion. The lion would do his stuff, and I’d do mine. He’d hunt, because that’s what lions do. I’d harvest and eat wild plants and berries, because that’s what I’d do. I’d shed my clothes, and walk naked. The two of us naked. Afternoons I’d spend reading and writing, and he’d rest, drowsy, one eye half-open. Half-watchful, but half’s enough in the afternoon. At night, together we’d stir at noises from far away. Stirring, together, at these sounds in the night, some from deep within the forest. In the morning’s first light, we’d stretch and yawn, and quietly unblear our eyes to the new day.