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
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