Bobcat on the Edge of Spring
Wild as a scowl, the bobcat
crosses the lawn, all feline stealth
and starlit plush. His colors of honey
and snow creep through eyebright,
his breast parting thistle stalks
like a plowshare, his tufted eyes
twitching with vigilance.
Under the blind hunter Orion
he prowls out from his throne
in the shale cliffs after a rabbit
or plump housecat. Pouncing,
he can blur to a whirlwind, all claws
and audible snarl. Even the fox
and ocelot, sensing him, slink
deeper into their burrows.
He moves sleek as a shadow
past boxwoods, the compost heap
and neat suburban woodstack.
The moon over House Mountain
shimmers his gold fur. Do bones
from sirloin scraps lure him,
or is it the whiff of chickens?
He is all current and yearning,
the one intruder night sparkles.
His eyes cast a glamour.
Does the well seep sweeter
for his passing or the wisteria sap
rise faster? The dog at the window,
gazing across dark grass, whines
and shivers, his engine uncertain
if this is prey or a sovereign.
On the manicured verge where locusts
and spruce bristle like hackles,
the dream beast flashes his teeth
then marks the trash barrels
with brimstone piss,
and in the garden's turned soil,
a single footprint stamps his royal
seal, silhouette of an unearthly
yet longed-for blood lily.