The soft thunder
of a cataracts
carves an ancient cliff.
Its verdant crown
muted, waiting
to attain release
from gray-tone chains.
The sun is liberation.

Climbing the rocks,
ascending from 
churning foam and
glistening spray,
sleek and wild, fragile
Beauty has bathed
the savage dreams
of night away.

Monkeys chatter,
parrots skreech,
The tiger coughs
apologetically;
He's come seeking
tastier prey
and has no time
for gossip.

He drinks his fill
and slips back into
the fronds and vines
with a final, lingering,
yellow stare,
he passes on...
and Beauty pins
A golden orchid
in her hair.