550 Original Poetry: Pock Marks

Her trail is precise, strategic,
the work of study and thought,
leading straight to the creek,
a destination
whose purpose I can’t decipher.

Like a sentry making rounds
her path is preordained,
veering neither right nor left. Perhaps
she is obligated to make a report;
her superior is awaiting her reconnaissance,
the legwork an integral part of a greater plan.

A sudden dash into the shed creates a ‘V’
and you can’t help but think she knows she was spotted.
Her cover, perhaps, blown by the little bird
whose twirp gave him away in excitement
at discerning the tortoiseshell’s plan.

Once she has forged the path,
once the snow bears the pock-marked evidence of her travels,
she makes the perilous journey again
and again,
each time mindfully placing her paws
in their designated receptacles,
molds of snow fit just for her.

And then I wonder if the retracing of steps is not
for her work as a spy or bounty hunter,
but is the rehearsal for her Broadway debut,
as she goes over her choreographed stage movements,
the slow-motion dance required for the delicate negotiation
of crystalline minefields.

At other times, I’m skeptical
and brush off her repetition as mere coincidence,
or the workings of a well-oiled machine,
whose pace and stride never vary, so of course
the padded paws find the same indents as before.

But deep down I know her efforts are deliberate,
methodical plotting
to someday catch the little bird unawares;
she plots to overthrow our aimless wanderings
and to usher in the age of the cat.