The Cat on the Hill

The birds told me it was around. They did not like its quiet presence. It was hunched up at the top of the bank where there seems to be a little path for small animals. It was watching and waiting. At first I thought it was a big, dirty rock of white quartz.

The next day it was back near the same spot, sunning and preening. I was out pacing in the cold. I thought about how relaxed it seemed, not ferocious and wild. Maybe it is a wandering visitor instead of a feral intruder. How does one tell?

This morning I started out my front door to look for it. It slithered away from the warm wall of the carport and disappeared into the woods up the hill. I hope it is not here to eat my chipmunk friends.

No, I will not be feeding nor adopting the cat on the hill. I have my rules about wild things. I have other rules for feral things.

I will only be watching the cat on the hill.

FLOW

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