You perch on the porch
edge, you precocious, brazen
bronze-brown nut-gatherer—
raising your inquisitive nose,
whiskers atremble with a smell
Whiskers quiver, the head turns
great green eyes of
interest upon you—fluffy nutkin—
padded feet and a twitching
tail tell of an energy reserve
Ready to spring as you back
away from the boards—
no longer bored, vigilant,
the queen of grey tigers
shifts stealthily, all attentive
At one swift tail-flick and
a bound you are roof-bound,
her Grace rolls over in
the golden afternoon sunlight
to dream of the chase
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