With a Skill Born

The cat took a flying leap

and with a skill born

of lethal instinct

caught the bird

in mid-flight. I saw

the flash of yellow,

the gray wing,

heard the shriek


the silence.



About wrensong

I am a poet who collects stones. I am a wanderer of creek beds and forests, canyons and high desert who, coming home, sometimes finds words to tell the story. I am a companion with others in the search for Deep, Wild Soul. I shape containers in time and space for others to come together to write, to tell their stories, to hold each other in the telling. I am a grandmother and the companion of a cat named Alaya. I often travel out into open country with a man who calls himself Dunewalker who has hung his hammock in my heart.
This entry was posted in A River of Stones, aros, Birds, Nature, Poetry, The River. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to With a Skill Born

  1. margo roby says:

    The poem is so sensory that I expect to see the scene when I look out my window.
    I am glad to have you and your poetry back in my life. I missed you while you were up in Alaska.

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