They’ve been back a few weeks,
bringing joy to our open field.
Tap dancers on tufts of spring breezes,
short spurts of song attending.
Slipping in and out of our barn,
nests are sprigged, and detailed
for another generation of acrobats;
those aeronautical exemplars of sky.
Cats lean against the door.
I imagine cigarettes bobbing
out of their mouths, as they discuss
the exploits of the day.
Their disregard for field mice,
those punks, beads for eyes,
little pipsqueaks of manic form.
So cat cliché, so old school.
Then a Cheshire grin settles
under their whiskers as
they look up with angel eyes
of insidious intent.
Feline felons in wait.
Butts are tossed, while
crouching coils their springs.
Hopes of swallowing a swallow.
I’ve never seen cats jump so high.