The shadows held a shadow, a denser black
lodged like a burr in autumn's charcoal mist.
The footprints followed next, a feral track.
Then, on the porch, a presence like a fist.
I offered first a bone. A bowl of milk.
Above the rim, eyes glowed liked yellow pools.
The fur, I thought, would be as soft as silk,
its deep design renewed from living spools.
At home now on my hearth, curled nose to toe,
it stirs in sleep. The claws recall their work.
Behind the muzzle's smile, the white teeth show.
I think of straining flanks, a taut throat's jerk,
imagining the hunger I have fed.
I bank the fire and eat its dreams for bread.