Hunters at Dawn

before the sun’s heat
makes moving unbearable
watering plants then
feeding the ferals

sitting on the deck
drinking cold coffee
reading Robert Bly
in the coolness of shade

movement in the trumpet vine
turning to see the anole
racing across a leaf
to devour a spider
unaware of deadly audience
	kittens and grackles

sensing not seeing eminent threat
jumps on a flower, up its vine
disappearing in the thick wall of vines
to high, to deep, to dense, for the hunters
the anole knows it has escaped death

grackles nosily express 
their angst and fly off 
kittens yawn, paw at imaginary anoles
and wind inspired leaves
finally laying down to nap

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