Three Lives

 

The tabby stalks
as stealthily as a leopard,
panting,
through the tall, winter-yellow grass,
her eyes glowing,
alert for the smallest movement.
She is dreaming of mice
and ready to pounce.

There is an old woman
sitting in thin late-winter sunlight,
watching the cat, thinking of 
a snow leopard in the Himalayas,
as elusive
as her long-vanished dreams.

There is a blue heron,
standing one-legged,
looking out at the western sea,
like its cousin, the flamingo,
in her more brilliant plumage,
the width of a continent 
and a warmer shore away.

Three lives in late winter,
anchored by one foot
on the ground,
with minds all
far-travelling.

Smiles. Brain is tired today, some nonsense for  Shay's Word List.