And then there is the lion's roar.
The one near sunset.
The one that never sounds the same

You lift your head.
You close your eyes.
The cold warms across your mouth,
your nose, before it fills your lungs.

The roar rises with the moon.
And the grey steppe begins to
sparkle all around you.

You move only a bit.
Still prone, you reach only out.
There is only a little wind.

The ghost roar is far away.
This time it is... sad.
It laps the stone.
It dissolves against the ridge line.

You open your eyes.
The moon washes them clean.
Your ears twitch.

And all is silence.

sdrogers 28 january 2013