Sonnet #317

On my porch, a cat has taken land that was not his

A feral Tom, young and lean, has fought 

And won, and gleans his meals from drought

In my neglected flower beds—poor anoles

My green friends hunting moths in citrus shrubs

And all the singing toads of twilight in irrigation

Lines, I fear for them. This wild young son

Who likely fought his mother, wants no rub

Of human kindness: but I try to build trust

I negotiate his favor with bribery and calm

Like the chieftain before him, the black wild crust

Of my sidewalk, who rolled gracefully into my palm

Only to bite, I will try to make peace, be friends

Kingdoms rise and fall, the earth abides, without end