Tawny There is no other word to describe the color of the winter fields the road cuts through on my way to you – exactly like the back and haunches of a lion, the hairs of his mane stirred by wind, sifted like grains of time. Another time, I might call that lion Samson, and wonder if, among his pride, prowls a lioness named Delilah. Another time, I’d ponder the power in hair to seduce. And yet in a bald head, there is virility, brawn. And in the face of a woman shorn by chemo, a terrible beauty. But for today, I think of the heart of a lion, how it takes courage to love. My own heart so vulnerable again, like the hare in its hutch in the moon. Lion or lover, if I squint, I can almost unsee your face there. Almost.