Cat On The Roof
Fleet as wind, she slenderly navigates the
early morning world. A world unseen to the
sleepers, tinned skies distilling the blue of
the west, the yellowing east.
Her eyes are liquid black slits, binocular-like
and always moving. No sound betrays her tiny
presence, skulking over the shed roof.
A hunt at dawn seemed best.
Her watery amble is a river of black silk.
The wiry frame perfected over millennia.
I imagine her, proudly perched next to
some gilded pharaoh,
Her all knowing persona guarded by the
lack of speech, a carnivorous genius.
She sees a mid-shaded morning, her
flexing lens calculating effortlessly.
The hunt is on..