she couldn’t walk; she couldn’t stand. i held her tiny life in my two hands.

the mother and the others, gone by night away. this one left in the nest in the light of the day. no pity, no guilt, no nudge of that ilk. a judgment: not strong enough, not worth the milk.

tiny [. . .]


they see him, and they stare. the mighty among them look on and despair. how many shocks will one sunrise bring? but such is the way of the desert’s first king.

for Sphynx is a lion beneath the man-mask, and this answers a question few ever did ask. whose lands are these where the red [. . .]

a pounce of Never-on-Tin

her tail twitches once, and then lies still as the chill of the morning air, as centered as her slitted stare. she’s heard the squeak and seen the probing paw. one hindleg shifts one half one inch; one claw slides from its sheath.

wind in whiskers, time turns long between the hunch-on-haunch-then-launch and the song [. . .]