|It’s cold outside,
an April Fool’s sunny morning,
a frozen ground,
brown grass matted like bad hair.
Mourning Doves mark their territory,
their stand of trees
other Doves may not enter
unless their pheromone keys can open the door.
The women doves are not yet returned
from their winter vacations.
The echoes of the vain, bachelor morning inspire the mourning moniker.
The lonely father in waiting.
A Cardinal sings, a Song Sparrow adds falsetto,
a teenage boy band wooing the teenage girl
who taps on her phone while swinging her purse to the music plugged into her ears,
Unwary of the creep watching her every move.
My cat lays in the sun,
on the spring deck,
soaking in the promise of warmth,
the promise of prey.
The old birds know my cat.
They know he’s a cold blooded killer
who toys with his catches, tortures
them with his cruel, curved implements of destruction.
He’s patient, my cat.
He knows the teenager doesn’t pay attention.
She’s easy prey with her budded ears and android fixated eyes
Ripe for the picking, my cat thinks, as he licks his fur,
dreaming of the blood of youth,
the screams he will silence with his teeth.
© Copyright 2012 Power Unit (UN: power_unit at Writing.Com).
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