The night is cool and silver white.
Soft velvet purring.
A box of old rage in the broom closet,
the nursery bed.
A shaft of moonlight through the open door
pools in the box on the closet floor.
The glitter of experienced golden eyes
as the last of four comes
sliding down the chute of life.
The loving rasp of a mother's tongue
dries the little thing in tri-colored fur,
with her tail curled wetly tight,
shinning like some dark self protective centipede.
With the instincts of a mouth on feet,
she mounts her wobbly legs
and goes foraging for a teat
in a forest of fur.
Finding her prey she feeds in the moonlight,
nestled with brother and sisters she is warm,
but the night is cool and silver white.