Sylvester

t rasa

Syl stops by when hunts go bad,
has his own feral name I'd guess.
Abides mine for random perch head,
chicken bone.

He glides perception's field and copse,
pads shadow lines for heat,
leaves himself in mewings
beneath barn floors,
under bales.

Last night I heard him
in a howling brawl. This morning,
dried blood, shred ear
shows he still holds his ground.

I crack two eggs,
wish him pale moons, health,
long shadows.