How would you handle a tiger? |
HANDLING TIGERS October 26, 2006 I’ve handled tigers with their warm orange sunsets behind strips of black cats and dog nose blacks and spongy padded paws with retractable claws. I’ve rubbed their ears on fortuitous afternoons with serendipity blowing in my hair and the sweet smell of the pinwheel fair churning through the rarefied air. I’ve heard them roar and seen them gather growls from deep inside their craws and felt the gates of hell open wide while they beckoned me inside as I shook and felt my knees knock against the plush sides of their hides. I’ve stood their ground and walked their paths and touched their fur and gazed into their marble eyes where legends live beneath blue skies and freedom lurks and ducks and spies and all thing wild seek surprise. I’ve been with tigers on darkening hills and walked between their fangs; white towers on red panting carpets; I’ve trembled there, gleaned wisdom fair and heard their soft and friendly words like reeling birds roosting in my heart, coiling to start. I’ve handled, rubbed, and heard the tigers; stood with them and walked and stalked and talked with them. I’ve feared and trusted them in turn, I’ve taught and fought and stayed to learn one thing, for sure; it can’t occur; there is no handling tigers. |