The Mighty Predator

The Mighty Predator

It's another hot, humid night in the Nepalese jungle.  The night birds are calling to their mates as insects flit here and there hoping to avoid the sharp beaks of those larger winged creatures.  This is my home; this is my time.  I have rested in the shade during the heat of the day waiting.  Waiting until the sun has fallen beyond the hills, and the moon has risen high above.  Then my hunt begins.

Hunger is my companion and it drives me, one step after another, always listening, waiting even as I walk.  I've learned well the walk of the predator, the stealth of my kind.  I hunt alone.

My travel takes me by the river where I lap the flowing water.  In the heat of the day, you might find me splashing in the water to wet my fur and cool myself.  But not at night.  I know that others will come to the water. 

I hide myself within the dense jungle watching, waiting to pounce and tear the life from some unsuspecting deer or antelope who comes to drink this night.  My ears twitch as I hear twigs crackle, but I make not a sound.  Wait; I must wait.

Now I can see it; my mouth starts to water.  Dinner on the hoof.  An antelope approaches the river cautiously.  She's been trained well to listen and look and listen some more.  But my silence is all that greets her, and as I lie downwind, not even a scent arouses her suspicion.  Her head goes down to drink.

Like wind, like fire, like volcanic eruption; I rise and run and strike all in one smooth motion of power and grace.  Her neck is broken and the blood flows.  And all the jungle is reverently silent.  The mighty tiger has found its prey; my dinner hour has begun.  Who says the lion is king of the jungle?  No here, not now, not in this my kingdom.

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