Our aged, half-feral cat has left a varied thrush
on the front steps,
a rare bird, head and breast
daubed with orange.
In the mulched flowerbeds under the windows,
a scatter of feathers.
Like a detective, I can trace the moment of terror,
how it hit the window,
stunning itself, making an easy mark.
Later, the cat
meows at the back door to be let in,
patient as death
and less blind than I’ve believed her.