The Bobcat 

Outside the walls of my house, the bobcat lurks …

feet dressed in a shade of ashen beige, 

body locked tightly.

From the shadowed forest edge,

her form stands atop the boundary,

a lichen-rich stone wall, the color of mint.

Snow-white chest, proud like a frigatebird,

resting on chiseled haunches, 

sinew and fibrous muscle visible 

through the parts in her tufted winter coat. 

She watches intently from her perch,

pupils dilating, as her tufted ears twitch.

She rises elegantly, an athlete, 

padded feet crunching the burnt

leaves of a gnarled oak.

Those eyes ... 

fixed on me,

a deathly glare.

Metallic gold, 

outlined with a shade of jet black, 

piercing through 

a pane of thin glass ...

Amidst the auburn canvas 

she paces, 

a solo hunter, 

a reclusive creature

traversing the wilderness.

A gunshot echoes

in my head, 

a reminder of … 

why she is alone.

Ivory claws extended, 

canines bared, 

she strikes something buried in the brush ...

She raises her head, a small 

hickory brown hare lying limp 

in her stretched jaws. 

Designed, perfectly drafted,

manufactured in beauty and precision. 

A machine, created to kill. 

An inorganic construction surrounds you,

a behemoth crafted from your home,

leaving torn bodies of lifeless, decaying bark. 

A monstrosity, born from soft grounds, 

born from a slaughter, invasive creatures,

my … residence.

Yet ... there is no difference between us, 

both waiting for the taste of succulent blood 

and the tearing of flesh.

Feast on the deceased hare, great bobcat,

for you are not the monster here, 

simply obeying nature’s laws …

The creature behind the veil of glass is not.