There’s more difference between a moving tiger and yielding grass than the eye can see.
Is the tiger healthy?
Does he limp,
does he wince from a torn foot-pad?
Is there fresh blood on his lips?
What is the sound of bending grass,
the path of air wending among
cat legs and reeds?
In seconds, every knowledge,
every failed lesson,
each overhung intuition–
too late, it is all tiger,
and a short field.
What does the wind say about you now?