Grandad's Tiger Cub

My back upon the bed, night's thickening dissolves. Awake, eyes open. I see him lying high, the silhouette of head, glint eye, arched back, tail hangs down black- tipped, black-striped, pale background, dawn revealing furry, fire-tipped orange. Perfectly still. He does not move. He has not moved since fading of last year, and now January is here, soon gone, and though the night's are long, summer sun's long march is strong, the shadow of his tail will shorten. I see a wound. Three stripes up, above tail tip, a small but bursting seam, entrail revealed, white and clean, showing clear what must have been. Ferocious battle with precocious cub who sudden leapt upon his back and cuffed and sank milk teeth into his neck, and roared and clubbed with fearsome paw. And tail was caught between the fray, and pulled and ripped and left this way, perhaps to fight just one more day. For now he waits, tiger lying high upon the wardrobe, beneath the ceiling. No thought, not feeling, not counting nights for cub's return. Yet eye below does long and yearn to see young cub again, his muscle grown, with longer leg and thicker hair. Not long, not long. The days will soon be flown in passing of the year.