Here, and yet not present

The lioness waits, frozen in the now,
one paw curled as if ready to lick
or pluck a pesky thorn
from tormented pad,
eyes forward and ears cocked,
as if the sight, or scent, or sound of game
has captured her attention;
taken her,
if only for this moment,
out of herself,
to focus on the what-might-be.
And if you were to shoot me now,
would I, like her, be staring at the future,
ignoring the pleasure of bird-in-hand
for the temptations of two in the bush
while failing to notice
the softness of the sand that cushions me,
the cool breeze on my cheeks,
the rosy light of the dying sun?
Tell me then: what is the difference
between here-and-yet-not-present
and death?


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