Sunday, January 22, 2017
July 1, 2015
She brings them back dead animals,
lovely huntress – she should be called Diane –
short shrews, torn mice, living-dead thrushes,
feathers and fur all mix on the blanket.
The preys she hunts down in the cut meadow
for her kittens – one white and black, one white and grey –
twins in full bloom whose destiny could be that of the mouse
she brought back this morning all wet with dew.
She meows, or shrieks rather, proud of her prize,
she left it there, on the carpet, for us all to consider,
her treasure, her trophy, a feather in her cap,
an awesome gift for the month-old furry balls.