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High Mass for a Dead Mouse

Wiley, hush-pawed hunter

Haunch sprung at meadow’s edge

Gauging grassy phrases

For the instant of kill

Crouched, calico-coiled

Whiskers tensed, attuned

Stalking life on death’s account -

The challenge of essence.

A fleet arc through air

Grace-born pounce, the tussle

Keen-clawed and quick

Triumph again

Supplanting ardor

Sleek emergence from the fray

Between tabby teeth

The limp chalice of prey

Another well-dispatched catch

On the altar of my doorstep -

Ritual rodent remains

Offered up without hymn.

G.F. Cantrell

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