They’ve been back a few weeks,

bringing joy to our open field.

Tap dancers on tufts of spring breezes,

short spurts of song attending.

Slipping in and out of our barn,

nests are sprigged, and detailed

for another generation of acrobats;

those aeronautical exemplars of sky.

Cats lean against the door.

I imagine cigarettes bobbing

out of their mouths, as they discuss

the exploits of the day.

Their disregard for field mice,

those punks, beads for eyes,

little pipsqueaks of manic form.

So cat cliché, so old school.

Then a Cheshire grin settles

under their whiskers as

they look up with angel eyes

of insidious intent.

Feline felons in wait.

Butts are tossed, while

crouching coils their springs.

Hopes of swallowing a swallow.

I’ve never seen cats jump so high.