"Be still," she growls from her post
atop the random cottonwood tree
as she digs her razored fingers
into the wet brown flesh of
her high standing pedestal.
Beneath her slinks the aged
form of youth, pond variety
drunk with delight from a night
of rich stories begging to be told.
Face to face.
His intentions betray him
they are not good.
She yearns to be further down
that random cottonwood tree of
raw unadulterated tales
minced to a fine concoction of
late wet words.
She dreams of sinking her
silver tips into his
box of inspiration
proving nothing more than the ability
to deflate
or become.
He needs a muse.
He would be sure to be
stunned
by her incredible pulchritude.
He would be sure to be
awed
by her fustian presence.
He would be sure to be
silenced
by HER.
But tonight atop the tree she remains
her burgundy feathers ruffled
in a playfully histrionic way
as if to say,
"Try harder my irresistable friend
this kitten sits
waiting for the story
she couldn’t refuse to write."
A green-eyed Cheshire is just as obstinate
as she is curious.
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