Jaguarundi, Santa Ana Refuge in the Age of Trump by Myron Scott

I am not a silent poet

I crouch, a darkness in the dark
……trees. The trees have claws like mine.
……They do not cut me; my deft feet, my
……hairs like sensors protect me.

I climb the dark trees in the blue light
……at dusk and before dawn. Most days
……I hunt by day, from the shadows,
……to eat, to live; not just to kill.

Most days the two-legs come quietly, just
……looking for green jay and yellow
……kiskadee. They never see me, I’m
……quick and quiet; but I see them.

But today they came many and loud.
……They tied red cloths to my trees. They
……dug holes in the ridge that holds
……the waters. I left early, to hunt.

Tonight, my trees are gone, dead on the
……ground. I know the two-legs killed them.
……Now a wall rises too high for

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