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The feather
A feather on the edge of the path
tells of an unseen conflict.
My cat has been hunting here.
Muscles flexing, waiting, twitching,
he has pounced on a starling,
dispatched it with a single bite,
and carried the limp lifeless thing away.
If I poke beneath the hedge I'll find the remains,
all that is left of the secret feast.
The feather is enough for me,
and my cat, fat, and smiling feline grins
rubs feral affection around and between my feet.
We know our place in this battle,
he, the hunter, and I, garnering the words.
Somerset 1999
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