the taunt, lying in wait,
heaves its sun-dappled flanks under the shade:
plotting, scheming, stewing,
its long pink tongue rolling over its fangs,
it waits under the tree for you to pass.
thinking of all the ways it will maul you,
the taunt cackles to itself,
hyena's sarcasm and loon's macabre
combining into the long, low hiss of laughter
that issues from its dank, hot mouth.
in the summer sunshine it waits,
biding its time during the midafternoon pause
when the earth breathes a sigh
and your body sighs too, complacent.
the rasp of its quick inhale
a counterpoint to its slow-ranging gaze,
the taunt scans for you,
scents for you, keens for you.
traveler, when you pass, the danger
will become intensely immediate.