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.
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