Crimson sky, in the distance
clouds reflecting the sun.
Above, darkness, stars,
dark blue everywhere.
The earth, mountains,
so green earlier,
as the sun disappeared.
Now all is dark, and an owl calls.
The hunters wake, clutching spears.
At the water hole; fierce combat.
Soon the new fire cooks through the night.
The tribe assembles as the moon rises,
children gather to eat and laugh.
Guards stand guard against the beasts.
An old man wears a mask and dances.
In the hut made of mud,
two become one
in muffled laughter.
Outside, a lady stands guard.
Later all sleep, satiated.
The grass rests, the lion hunts.
At dawn water sprinkles the grass
and sparkles green.
October 28, 2013
© 2013 Christopher Mahan