A pink glow suffuses the cumulus,
tricked out with a delicate fringe of lace at the far
horizon in the east.  A spectacular
flash undoes night’s necklace. Superfluous,

its pearls shatter and fall into the sea.
The sky’s peignoir, fastened by the bright
clip at its top, modifies the light
to fleck the water’s green.  There appears to be

a rain of flakes of fire. Bamboo trees
rustle, and the purple lychee fruit
dazzles in the dew in absolute
voluptuousness that cannot fail to please

the most demanding connoisseur.  From the wood
there comes a rich mélange of sweet perfumes
we cannot find in any drawing rooms.
Nature here seems luxurious and good.

Tangled grasses steam in the morning heat
of the virgin forest in which, half-hidden, run
paths no man has ever walked upon
that were made by the quiet passage of animal feet.

Comes then the Queen of Java, the huntress, black
and sleek, returning to feed her small cubs where
they play among gnawed bones.  She drags to her lair
what’s left of the deer she has killed and is bringing back.

She undulates along, and with her pale
yellow eyes peers into the underbrush
and the branches overhead.  There is a hush
as she passes.  The deer’s blood leaves a crimson trail.

Butterflies dance above.  Industrious bees
hover on their way to the flowers that grow
along the track to perfume the air.  There is no
end to the dense forest’s felicities,

except for the curious python that now rears
its flat head from a scarlet cactus bed
to watch the panther’s progress with the dead
deer she drags until she disappears,

a dark phantom gliding into the deep
ferns and mossy tree-trunks.  Gone from sight,
she leaves a changed silence beneath the bright
blue sky as if the forest were asleep.