WEST
“When somebody dies in this world we cry
and those in the other world laugh.
When a child is born in this world we laugh
but those in the other world cry.”
31. Nyx
We roam the mountains now with our little girls, first in a baby sling, then on short sweet legs, then long fleet legs, lightfooted, running. But at dusk we keep them close.
I have never seen a mountain lion in these hills. I have seen their pawprints in the dust; seen their scat; felt the hair raise on the back of my neck when walking below a brush-covered slope in the gathering dusk.
I would love to see a mountain lion but more and more I feel that I don’t need to. Human vision is too banal for some things; not sharp like an eagle’s; not blurred and rich with scent like a dog’s. Human vision has that mid-level acuity that creates an illusion of clear contours and outlines, of manageable shapes and forms that can be corralled, manipulated, controlled. In human vision, lions can be darted, drugged, tagged, and numbered. Anestheticized. Lifted in slings and trucked unconscious to other territories. Human vision may believe this to be a good idea; part of effective “management” of lions.
Lions don’t want to be managed.
They will fucking kill you if they can, rather than be managed by you.
Knowing there are lions is enough. Knowing there are fierce mothers who kill for their kittens, mothers who move on silent paws, who stalk and crouch in the twilight, stretch and yawn in the sun. Mothers with eyes clear as water, with razor teeth and claws, with warm hearts and soft teats flowing with neverending love.