The Winter Lion

When the lion was young,
his roar carried
across the entire valley.

From the northern ridges
to the river plains,
other lions called back
from distant hillsides.

And the young lion
answered them all.

Sometimes through rain.

Sometimes through cold wind.

Sometimes only because
he loved hearing
his own voice
roll across the valley.

The valley seemed endless then.

And so did he.

But over time,
the old roar
grew harder to summon.

Cold air settled heavily
in his chest.

Some evenings,
long roaring
left the old lion weary.

Still,
the old lion resisted this.

He answered calls
long after his voice
had begun to tire.

Some evenings,
he roared more often
than necessary.

The sound rolled away
and faded
across the valley.

It no longer
sounded the same.

And afterward,
the silence felt larger
than before.

For many years,
the lion feared
there was little left inside him
except the fading strength
of his younger days.

That he had become
simply old.

Little by little,
the lion wandered less.

He remained more often
among the high grasses
near a ridge overlooking
the valley below.

Some evenings,
he simply watched dusk
gather through the hills.

The wind carried
different sounds there.

River water.
Crickets.
Branches shifting softly
against stone.

Yet whenever distant roars
crossed the valley,
the old lion
lifted his head.

One winter evening,
young lions
called through the hills below.

Their voices drifted thinly
against the wind.

One called again.

And again.

Still,
the distant lions
did not answer.

From the ridge above,
the old lion listened quietly.

Then at last,
he stood slowly
from the tall grass
and gave a single roar
across the valley.

The sound rolled deeply
through the hills below.

Far away,
other lions lifted their heads.

The young lion
called again,
standing a little taller now.

Then the old lion
settled quietly
back into the grass
to rest.

Afterward,
when evening winds
moved across the valley,
the old lion
still answered now and then.

Not endlessly
as he once had.

But enough.
At his own pace.

And sometimes,
a single roar
was all that was needed.