basking in my sunspot,
and there are nuggets in my bowl …
there must be because I can’t see the bottom.
Cool, fresh water
with a hint of glacier,
like the mountains I could roam
—if I wanted to.
Got my mouse,
not the pristine fake,
but the one with no head or tail,
its skin coming off because I’m a fierce hunter.
pounce, lick, bite,
fling with my claws …
there’s no escape for the mouse—after I sleep.
©November 2017, Christina Anne Hawthorne