or is it a case of transmogrification, some black magic,
the perpetration by a mean-spirited ailurophobe lurking
in my backyard?

I put the cat food out each morning, watch birds of every feather
swoop and peck, swoop and peck.

Somewhere in the trees, a starling paints a sign
“Cats Beware!”  but I wonder if he’s hiding his tail and whiskers,
yearning to wear his own fur now become plumage.

What wicked spell is this, my cats flying away, learning to lay eggs
forgetting to purr?  What foolish perseveration as I visit the deck,
cat food in hand, searching the bush, scanning the branches,
“Here, kitty” on my lips, broken heart in my chest?

There will be no rest until the pet detectives return
my ferals to their rightful place, their whiskers brushing
bowls of Meow Mix in the secret ritual uniting us,

the “I need you more than you need me” shame of
a relationship the birds mock with their sharp beaks
as they swoop and peck, swoop and peck~

Damn it, it’s MY deck!!

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