When we first came to Swala, a serene
Oasis under broad acacia trees
In that wild corner of Tarangire, 
Our host told us four lions had been seen
From time to time at night outside our tent.
No cause for alarm, he said; animals
Perceived the tent as having solid walls, 
And did not like our scent. They’d be content
To feast on other prey, if we remained
Zipped in once darkness fell, and kept quiet.
We slept on fine white sheets, but bolted straight:
The roaring held and shook us, and we prayed
Our host was right about the cats’ eyesight.
At dawn, we found the warthog that they ate.