Speak whispers in prophecy
and warm a savage maw with
ideas of hope, faith and good graces.

The tigers, despite reputation,
roar in sleeper hits, brassy
as a choir of trumpets and tubas,

While lesser felines, toy with
their shadows, spun like a yarn
by a salty sailor, or village elder.

Their azure stripes seem greener
by nightfall, and I've only just begun
to whittle an antler between my fingertips.