My cat breasts low through waves of grass,
whisky-hued, froth-necked, trawling
a nervous sea of juncos and jays.
                                                    One leap
and a tide of feathers shoots skyward
splattering this way and that, over
rooftops and powerlines, cloud-scudding,
                                                                subsiding
in cherry-limbs, pine boughs, the fragrance
of dogwood,
                   and a pink hot mouth
dripping with mortality.

David Gravender