Faded memories of trees,
pregnant with vines and bananas,
the sweet smells of rotting vegetation
at ground level and the tremor of fear
when the lions approached.
That rush of adrenaline
in the bark shinning scramble
to the safety of the canopy above.
The warmth of a snuggling mate
when the rains spattered
chill pelts on furred backs.
The carefree swing of
tree to tree ascensions
where the warm sun graced
many shrill chatterings of glee.
Sips from a bubbling brook
or a cool emerald pond,
one eye on its sweet bounty,
the other always seeking predators.
And of course the endless regret
at sneaking in to snitch those
tempting raisins and chocolate
only to be netted
by the trappers
several years ago.
All that was cherished
replaced by drab concrete gray
with jaundiced scatterings
of limp jungle fauna
amidst splatters of excrement.
Some mucky water in a tin pan
and a once daily bucket of slop
fought over like creme brulee'.
Plus that ugly black rubber ring
to swing on when the mood strikes.
This is what it feels like
when what's wild cries!
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