Lions in the all grass

And here they come— not marching, not stampeding— but moving with the arrogant choreography of creatures who have never once needed permission. A pride. Which is what we call them. As if naming them after our own deadliest sin makes them easier to understand. They pass through the tall grass like ghosts with bodies. Muscles tuned to silence. Eyes like dusk made conscious. Each one is a sermon on how little noise power needs to make. See how the grass parts for them? Not out of fear— grass knows no fear— but out of some ancient agreement written long before men thought to carve borders or build fences or give commentary on lives they couldn't live. The cubs mimic the steps of queens and killers, not yet knowing which they are destined to become. The mothers, patient as time, scan the horizon as if it’s an old argument they’re not done having. This is not a scene. This is scripture. A procession of muscle and memory wading through an ocean of gold as if the world were theirs— and for fifteen silent seconds, it absolutely is.