The hunters lie purring, at rest…
Warm balls of fur, on lap or chair
The family room, their lair…
The one named Margaret was the best
A country cat with special skills
She always made a point to talk
To the people in the house,
Then go into a backyard stalk,
Returning later with rabbit kills,
Or un-quick bird, unlucky mouse…
Afterwards, licking her paws,
A cat-yawn stretching her jaws,
Contented, she dozes and dreams
Of places to hide and feline schemes
For getting food, and back strokes
Given by the human folks
Margaret always touching, asking
With her sing-song cat-voice
“Where’s my food?”, “Let me out,
You have no choice...”
“I must obey my hunter tasking.”
Later, on sun-lit spot she basks,
Looking so peaceful as she lies
Old Margaret the cat, gentle and relaxed…
But look closer and you see and realize
The hunter’s gleam remains in her eyes.
No comments:
Post a Comment