A
murder of crows
takes
off in
almost unison-fright-flight
as I
(tromping
through the fallow garden)
stalk
Compost,
who
of course leaves (they're falling all around)
her
perch,
as
fresh goodies join the pile
She
rules in majesty,
mostly
white, with her brown-black face,
orange
“stay away from me” paws
padding
softly to the companion pile,
patiently waiting for the delivery
This
As
close as I've come -
is it
the carrot peelings, or
maybe
it's egg shells -
are
they dessert?
Lick
the dregs, of the separated
whites,
dump
the yolks
and
of course the potatoes
I don't
need peelings,
though
she does
this
is her restaurant,
and
it seems today is a good day
She's
still there as I walk back,
and
gingerly (on those ginger paws)
she
approaches her dinner.
****
Been stuck in the waste-land of no idea what to write. Then this just tumbled out as I sat staring into the backyard. At least seven cats compete for our compost pile, but she's the queen, and not nearly as feral as when I first saw her. She still scares the crap out of the collared and pampered neighborhood cats, though. If I were her, I'd enjoy that. A lot. ***
