Jeff Friedman

Mountain Lion

Alone, I faced a mountain lion. He leaped at me, but I was too quick
and ducked under him. Before he could come at me again, I grabbed
his tail. He turned and twisted, but couldn’t reach me. He shook his
whole body with tremendous force, but couldn’t shake me. He rolled
over and over to no avail. Then he took off at a tremendous speed
dragging me over rocks and cacti, banging me into craggy trees. He
dragged me through mirages and oases where I thought I might
drown. Dust coated me. He leaped over shrubs and rocks to throw
me, but I held on. He tried to whip his tail but couldn’t because I was
too heavy. At last tiring, he slowed to an amble, glancing back at me
as if I were now a swollen part of his body. He came to a shady spot
and lay down. I reached for my knife to slay him, but my knife and its
sheath had fallen off. I crawled forward to choke him, but had no
strength left in my arms. I looked into his eyes, the eyes of a killer, I
thought, yet all I could see were sleepy yellow moons. The mountain
lion yawned, and in one quick gulp swallowed me whole. Now I live
inside him, waiting to spring out.