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.