Tiger Gun

When we were children, Carl and I used to roam the wilds of Cazenovia Park, on the south side of Buffalo, New York. We walked the creek banks there, exploring the fauna and flora with all the animation and wide -eyed wonder of Henry Stanley searching for Lake Victoria in Africa.

The cat-o-nine tails, along the banks there, are tall and willowy. They sway and rustle in the wind. Like most children, my imagination was continually in overdrive. I would see the reeds move and imagined that a tiger was lurking there, stalking us.

        It was silly of course. Part of me knew that there were no tigers in Cazenovia Park. But, somewhere in my imagination and just beyond the first row of reeds, I sensed a presence. It lay there quietly, waiting for me to get too close. If I were careless enough to do so, I was sure that it would pounce.



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