She takes it seriously, my cat Molly,
every limb committed
to its part, inching forward
smooth and silent. The crow
is busy with his repertoire
of caw, croak, and rattle.
And I only notice this high stakes moment
as my radio drama has just finished,
the tune of Barwick Green fading,
- and then with a leap my cat sinks teeth and claws
into the bird’s black mass, feathers scatter
from torn pinions, they twist together,
calico to black to calico to black and red.
The crow gets in a few jabs with his beak
before it is beat.
Then it is still,
She purrs over her prize, licks her wounds,
every choice a consequence,
and slowly walks over to her saucer.
She laps the milk I left out this morning
before disappearing over the fence.
I ready myself to clear the body,
for I’ve done this before, it does no good
to put it off. Just as I go to open the door
another crow lands beside his fallen mate,
and as if giving directions, he is resurrected,
and flies off, having given the performance of his life.
Glen Wilson is a Poet from Portadown. He won the Seamus Heaney Award for New Writing (2017), the Jonathan Swift Creative Writing Award (2018), the Trim Poetry competition (2019), and Slipstream Open Poetry competition (2021). His collection An Experience on the Tongue is available now. Twitter: @glenhswilson