The Predator
Inky eyes, soft padded feet
A bright white flash, a dot among
a smooth, soft sinowy mass of body
A body coiled, bright eyes round.
A spring about to strike
Ears perked, attention fixed on a far away fluttering mound
Of buzzing, frantic energy, a dizzying hive
She is transfixed, stuck, stubbornly intent.
A hunter, a predator on her game
A game of chance and fidgeting, long awaited strike
Against this frantic, dizzying, biting hive.
Of villany. Of scum.
Of bees going about their business
In lives much like her own
She sees not such everyday peculiarities.
Such intriguing shades of grey.
For her world has no gray
She deals not in shades but in contrasts, in sharp black and white.
Her own role as a hunter, a predator, is seldom called into question.
If only she could see
That she is the one in danger, this quivering coiled hound
From the many that she so despises.