Once every five years the sun tiger wakes and moves through the land.
He crosses green plains that turn to deserts, ice sheets sliding to salt sea, tar-tacky highways and the baking red-rock banks of long-gone glaciers. He slips like a silver fish through dark suburban backwaters and picks his way, proud, over landfill peaks.
He is harbinger of heat. His paws scorch soil.
He padfoots once around the globe and, as the evening star begins to rise and the cicadas give way to bats and night-birds, reaches that place that is home, stretches, yawns, and returns to tail-twitching slumber.