Three Fewer

The tabby slinkily strutted across the yard fresh kill held loosely in diamond teeth; a turtle dove, its tiny head bobbing, to the lazy rhythm of the loping cat. A flash of pink spangled collar around a plump, too fleshy neck bears witness to a home; domestication of a sort. Still warm; the feathers barely ruffled the offering limpidly dropped with pride onto soft white cushions of a couch will be repaid with loving words, treats, a hand gliding along a soft arched back. The cat, again among familiar things will guiltless drowse, exhausted from the day's first kill. The dove will rot; its putrefying body trashed among the other scourings. Two hatchlings with gaping yellow beaks wait vainly; abandoned, they too will die. The cat's companion tends the feeder, enjoying morning birdsong in her garden. Turtle doves, red-listed birds, now, three fewer.