We yank the rope straps.

Snap our metal latches on those puffy tangerine vests

that make us look like the fools we truly are.

Bumping past the island’s western corner,

winds fade. We glide on placid waters.

Our punt—a boat of welded metal—

holds one motor, one blithe captain in a torn yellow shirt,

hook-nosed. Hung over the till.

The till like a branch off his black, bony arm.

We slip through a thin coral corridor,

like a lost scarf,

while his cheap, blue-glass watch

twists, the reef hurtling fast underfoot.

We see it now.

What we came to witness.

The lion with molten rock paws

that brush the sea.

Pine trees combed back like a mane above his brow.

Flattened by centuries of war

against a stiff, ancient wind.

Blowing thick on this afternoon.

Our punt nearly capsizing before it.

Rife with panic, darkness— that wind.

What this lion eats, day, night, and day.

Salt hardening on the knuckles and lips,

we lean closer.