On soft, silent, padded paws,
all cats are grey in the night;
this is their time.
A shadow walking in shadows,
Prometheus is on the prowl.
Other toms keep their distance,
and a fox crosses the road
to avoid him;
but the mouse saw nothing,
heard nothing,
knew nothing.
On wings without a whisper,
old Tawny perches
on the chimney pot,
in time to see the cat
snatch his prey.
Their eyes meet,
the owl and the pussycat,
the staring match of all time.
Prometheus looks away first.
After all,
he has the mouse.
