251. Broken

A spot on the road,
where a kangaroo once stood.
Now just empty fur.

181. Watching the Fields

In the soft glow just after dawn,
I spot a kangaroo, streaking across the field
stopping behind the wiry imitation of a bush.

I pause on the dirt path, waiting, watching
to see if it emerges again,
if I'll catch another glimpse of it,

but after a minute or two without moving,
I realize I never actually saw a kangaroo
but rather a swipe of motion that should be one.

The Unnamed Cat

We resist the urge to name the black cat
after we found the small, charcoal one
bloated and deformed from days in water,
but she becomes familiar to us anyway.
She curls under our feet when we sit
in the plastic lawn furniture at night.
She comes out to mewl at lunch, seeking
food and attention, but she's too skittish
to come closer. It becomes an triumph
to see if we can draw her close enough
to touch her tail, or better, her curved back
before she flees into the shadows to hide.
She inches back to us a few minutes later.

But then, she doesn't come back anymore,
and we keep setting out bowls of water
and plastic containers of dried kitty food,
hoping that she'll come back to see us
unless she's found somewhere better,
somewhere more interesting than here,
where she can run wild in the outback
or continue to calm around nice people
or find another cat to keep her company.

Still, no one's surprised on the morning
someone finds the still unnamed cat,
swollen, rigid, and floating in a pond.

Story Hour

We sit around the table on the patio,
nearly a dozen of us all together,
telling stories of wild animal encounters-
badgers half the size of grizzlies,
black bears in the neighbor's yard--
and googling photos of creatures
that don't translate as easily,
while we sit bask in the sunset,
drinking beers, watching the cat,
and laughing so hard it feels right.

Ode to Curving Spines

I mentioned twice that I hadn't seen the gray cat
in three days, the small kitten with the fluff
on its head and terror in the pads of its paws,
the curve of its spine as it darted to the break
in the concrete and the cover of the building.
The black cat stayed in the open longer,
wary yellow eyes focusing on every sound,
including the golden birds with caution drawn
in the lines of their wings when they stopped
short of the bread crumbs for fear of claws.
But when the gray kitten didn't venture
out for food or even stretch out one lone paw
at a piece of chicken from under the building,
I knew the little one had been right to carry
the fear in its stride, caution in its eyes.

The Cats

They peak out from under the crib room,
one black head fluffed around the concrete,
one gray nose edging out with curiosity
but wariness for all of the people milling
around the patio, but the lure of food
is too promising and as the crowd thins,
they crawl out to investigate the edges.
They stay silent, slinking around in search
of an easy snack, but they keep watch
on those of us bigger than them, ready
to dart back to the safety under the building.
Each day, though, they stay out longer
and make a little more noise than yesterday.

Roadkill

As we bound along the highway,
I can't help but study the things
strewn about one of the lanes
or on the red dirt of the shoulders.

Is it a blown out tires shredded
or the remains of a kangaroo?
Does a uniquely shaped rock
catch my attention or is it a cow
lying on its side in the grass?

But once I know that kangaroo
hooves stay straight in the air
and their bones are the same color
as the bright eucalyptus branches,
I avert my eyes, grimacing
with regret to my own curiosity.

The White Backside

We round the bend on the trail,

watching our shoes on the uneven

dirt path covered with large rocks.

The eucalyptus trees rustles to our left 

and we have just a moment to spot

the bright white backside of a bull

its horns curling out from either side

of its bulk as it runs through the grove

with surprising speed and nervousness

for an animal so much larger than we.