Cottontails by William Wordsworth’s Cat
I wandered hungry as a hawk
That floats on high o’er hills and dales
When all at once I stopped to stalk
A clutch of little cottontails;
Beside the lake, among the reeds,
Quavering and squealing in the weeds.
As feather-brained as the bugs that land
and dally in my dinner bowl,
They clung together in a band
Around the bottom of a hole:
A dozen saw I at a glance,
Frozen with fear in terror’s trance.
And though they did not dance or play
But simply sat and stared at me,
A kitten could not be but gay,
In such delicious company:
I ate – and ate – the whole sweet pack.
Oh, what a tasty rabbit snack.
And oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
That conjured up a favorite food;
And then into a ball I scrunch,
And dream about that bunny lunch.
—Henry Beard, Poetry for Cats
November 06, 2015
Cottontails by William Wordsworth’s Cat
I wandered hungry as a hawk
That floats on high o’er hills and dales
When all at once I stopped to stalk
A clutch of little cottontails;
Beside the lake, among the reeds,
Quavering and squealing in the weeds.
As feather-brained as the bugs that land
and dally in my dinner bowl,
They clung together in a band
Around the bottom of a hole:
A dozen saw I at a glance,
Frozen with fear in terror’s trance.
And though they did not dance or play
But simply sat and stared at me,
A kitten could not be but gay,
In such delicious company:
I ate – and ate – the whole sweet pack.
Oh, what a tasty rabbit snack.
And oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
That conjured up a favorite food;
And then into a ball I scrunch,
And dream about that bunny lunch.
—Henry Beard, Poetry for Cats