Buttery adagio light drips through
the berry-heavy pyracantha branches
where cardinals cautiously feast, their soft
chit-chit-chit of alarm a siren song
to Uno, stalking beneath, keenly unaware
that his albino fur flashes his presence
to the tasty twittermeats that pivot,
plié and flit from twig to fruit,
a scrumpy rumba for any feline.

Last year, I’d let him have his fun,
but Mom wept over every cracked egg;
I call him away from precious nestlings.
His prim savagery will be soothed
if I let him lick my ice cream spoon:
butter pecan from Gandy’s Dairy.
He’ll flee if I play Mom’s Verdi; E l’amore
lo lusinghi must be some kitty obscenity,
the opposite of Momma’s plain lullabies
as she rocked me asleep on the veranda
in the warm honeysuckle breezes.

Mom’s a brick of ash in a Baptist wall
and the nest I made stayed empty;
Uno’s happy to play the changeling,
curled, purring while I rock him in my lap
as the sun sinks in the red-feathered sky.