In the windswept forest of ice and snow,
in the mountain blizzard and the winter's cold,
a spectre of stripes glides through the tundra.
Other creatures clear the way for her,
the terror of the northern reaches.
Her fur a tapestry of tawny and black,
a roaring fire amidst the white haze.
Her den cradled by the roots of an old pine,
the fallen cones scattered outside.
A hare crosses the threshold,
hears a rumbling growl within and flees.
The mother tigress shelters her newborns,
blind and mewling, against the arctic chill.
Soon the hunt will call to her again,
and she will haunt the ice once more.
(Yep, we're off on the NaPoWriMo adventure once more. Who knows where it'll go this year, but we'll soon find out with the next installment tomorrow. See you all there, and to my fellow poets, good luck!)
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