The cat takes with her on the hunt  
what she knows she'll need. Within her kit  
a bag of slink, thin-mind of shadow  
to blend with weeds the while she stalks  
field mouse, house wren, vole and garter-snake. 

She packs her razor claws, honed on rough bark 
and hid in furry purse of paws. Her fearful fangs 
secreted in her cheeks behind the willow-sprouts 
of whiskers. A rumbly hollow pot of purr she totes, 
a soother when prey has escaped, 

or, lying paralyzed with terror, pants 
crippled in the duff, feigning demise, 
in hopes it might, impossibly, get loose  
beyond the reach of slitted yellow eyes    
the cold-faced killer blazes at the day. 

The twitching tail-tip she includes, 
a metronome for readying her charge, 
and passing time in moments après-catch 
when, lolling on her side, she might or might not choose 
to snatch the saucy unit twitched in doom. 

This thing that acts as though it did not hear 
that cat is what this world affords 
of majesty, of life and death, and fear, 
a puissance prone to merciless attack. 

As, though she won't let on, is she herself 
when shadows fall and human traffic thins. 
A dog she may outrun, out-climb 
or just face off,  but her keen senses 
all go widdershins before the soundless swoop 
of great-horned owl, or coyote's lightfoot lofting 
o'er the wall. 

Poor puss can't even stand her ground. 
Little comfort that what goes around 
yet comes around.