The cat peering over the precipice
has the advantage of seeing prey
before it knows it’s marked.
The lie of the land is plain,
distilled by perfect sight and scent.
This is territory. Not yours,
not mine and, by the look of things,
not the barbet’s either.
Everything has a purpose, the sheer scale
of the precipice, its vertiginous course,
the Lilliputian scene below.
Blood brings them together.
Not that there’s much. In fact
the bird might be merely sleeping
while one loose feather rises
on a stray current of air, landing
nowhere in particular, marking the spot.