Lynx rufus

Woken by thirst & a hot gaze from the mouth of the shelter: sun, or mother dangling some new, wet chew-toy for her grown kitten? The dream visions slink back behind the rocks, where it’s always night. Yellow eye, help me look for a drink under these shelves of angled light. Water has no scent of its own. After dark, it’s simple to track it by its purr: every large ravine has a throat, a pulsing vein. Its surface trembles, the loveliest of pelts. But sometimes too there’s water on top of the mountain, above the head of the ravine. Silent, & therefore something to be wary of. Moving only when the wind disturbs it. Impossible to ambush. Daylight buzzing in my whiskers, I gust through the newly molted leaves looking for that fierce glint.