Hawk flies high, soars,
blends into gray sky,
no shadow over
trees and guineas
that scuttle into
brush where coyotes
lurk, or into
woods where an owl
pivots large round
eyes and clutches
wood in long sharp
talons. Somehow
guineas survive
to return to coop’s
security each night,
to a cage I
close to wander
in all my freedom
where my foes lurk
on nightly news.

I was born white,
not pure white, no
kin to winter’s
virgin snow, but
a white waxy
grime that plastered
me, contained me
in a slime coat
until I opened
my eyes to see
through brown eyes
a world blurred
in many colors,
a scale that slides
through a spectrum
I can only hope
to blend into,
at least wiped clean
if never pure.

My daughter’s old
cat, left behind
when she moved out,
stares out from
a corner beneath
my work bench, no
more than two eyes
in shadows, and
a quiet rumbled
purr. She has eaten
nothing for days.
She will not come out.
I envision her
slow fade to vanish
when she closes
her eyes, while a feral
kitten my daughter
discovered in our yard
claws at my pants,
then scrambles away
when I reach down
to grasp hold.