The Mountain Lion

A mountain lion roams my woods. She has been for as long as I can remember. I catch glimpses of her here and there. A fierce rustling of the underbrush in the middle of the night. A paw print in the driveway on wet mornings. An enticing purring from the sun-freckled back porch on a lazy Sunday afternoon. She is not out to get me. She does not see me as prey. Quite the opposite. She leaves me mementos on the doorstep like the proud cat she is. Small birds. Gophers and prairie dogs. Once, she gave me a nest full of eggs. They were blue. They never hatched though I tried to keep them warm. I feel honored but confused as to what I have done to deserve these gifts. This is not the same as she would not attack if I cornered her. This is not the same as she would not be inclined to chase me if I ran. This is not the same as she would not go for my spinal cord if I played dead. But I have no desire to. She lives here. This is as much her territory as mine. We coexist. I know her. Grief.