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The Tiger

By Sophie Rieckmann

Its paws struck with undeniable force against the bed of the jungle trail. He was on the prowl. Each muscle could be seen rippling; from head, to calf, to claw. The majesty of the Tiger is not to be underestimated. The tail gracefully undulated between explosive strides, whilst the face had a look of intensity. It wasn't aggression, but a more benign expression rested there instead. His ears were pricked, like freshly-sharpened pencil nibs, waiting, listening, seeing. The midnight eyes were deep, dark, unique and piercing. The marking of the Tiger appeared elusive as he hotfooted between tropical trees and bushes. You could clearly see that this is where the Tiger truly belonged. The hunters who were so eagerly tailing him had no business in removing the Royalty of the jungle from his dominion. I prefer the skin on the real deal, pounding and pulsating with muscle, energy, blood. Take away the Tiger, and you strip the jungle of its charm. A Tiger is not born to crouch in the undergrowth- a Tiger is born to live.


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