The savanna quivered under the heat. The air was thick and heavy as honey, and the earth smelled of dust and sun. A lioness lay in the shade of an acacia tree, half-asleep, listening to her cub playing nearby — rolling in the grass, chasing his tail, growling clumsily like an adult. She lazily lifted her head, glanced at him, then closed her eyes again. Everything was calm. Too calm.
The birds fell silent.
Even the wind stopped.
The lioness rose, alert. Her ears twitched. And then she saw it — a flash in the sky. A small dot, moving far too fast. A glimmer of silver — and a sudden, cutting whistle.
A falcon. Massive, full-grown, sharp as an arrow. It was diving straight toward her cub.
The little lion looked up, and for a split second, the sky reflected in his eyes — bright, vast, and terrifying.
She didn’t think. She leapt. Her body knew what to do before her mind could catch up. Dust filled her eyes, claws tore into the ground. In the final heartbeat, she reached him — covering him with her body. The air exploded with sound — wings, a scream, heat, and dust.
The falcon struck — but not the cub. Her.
Its talons tore into her shoulder, and her skin burned. She roared — not in pain, but in fury. With one swipe of her paw, she sent the bird tumbling into the grass. It hit the ground hard, wings spread wide, then staggered up, flapped a few times — and vanished into the blinding light.
The lioness panted, pressing her cub close. He was alive. His tiny heartbeat thudded against her paw — fast, hot, desperate.
She licked between his ears.
“It’s all right,” her breath seemed to say.
Then she heard it — a faint, rasping sound from behind the bushes.
She stiffened, ears pricked. Something moved in the tall grass. For a moment, she thought — another predator.
But then she saw it: another falcon. Small. Very young. Barely feathered. It lay there helpless, flapping its wings weakly, squeaking — frightened and fragile.
The lioness froze. The wind rippled through the grass. The world went still again — the stillness before a leap. She looked at the chick and understood: the other falcon hadn’t been attacking. It had been protecting.
It was only trying to save its own fallen child.
The lioness inhaled slowly. Inside her, something clenched — a quiet ache of recognition, of sorrow, of the strange mirror nature had placed before her.
She turned back to her cub, pulled him close, and lifted her eyes to the sky.
Where the falcon had disappeared, clouds now drifted slowly — calm, indifferent, eternal.
Sometimes a mother protects.
Sometimes she loses.
And only those who have truly loved know — there’s no real difference between the two.
