The roses are flushed crimson, flowers rapidly
blossoming like lit matches in the small garden.
A cat lays on the highest level of his cat tree at

the window in front of the bird feeder. He watches
an adolescent cardinal peck at the seeds, as his ears
fold back, and his jaw trembles with a guttural growl

of primordidal desire. Finally, unable to stand it anymore,
he lunges, splaying his paws against the pane, claws
sliding down with no purchase on the glass, as the bird

flies away. He finds himself in the predicament of
domestication, seeing his prey only a few feet away
through the window, unable to capture it. And the worst

humiliation, on days when the birds do not come,
he must settle for the consolation prize of watching
the bumblebees fumbling among the hydrangeas.

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