We made a pact,
the featherthings and I,
to kill the one that hunts
them, that stalks the edges
of my property and leaves
his stinking piss to mark it.
They had their beaks,
I had my teeth and claws.
It should have been quick,
but the featherthings turned,
nipped my tail as we fought,
flapped their wings and
flapped their throats.
I escaped, though scarred,
scratched. And now I walk
my property and eat down
the featherthings I find,
the little cousins of my
greatest traitors. I crunch
their bones and watch the
garden wall, waiting for a
single second chance.