The grasses are actually lawns
not blowing in the wind like rushes,
the cats sense their dismay:
tawny hue and jet, one minute sporting –
each with the articulate delineation of
the toy maker;
the next, alighting with a precarious leap,
gnarled branches – hidden by the splayed leaves
of a forest canopy.
Darkness has fallen,
and the moist earth of the forest humus
is replete with victims.
The cats glance at their escaped pray,
their stealth has been inbred out of them.