Cat tracks in snow

cat tracks.

Every morning when I go out to get the newspaper,
there are fresh tracks in the snow — nocturnal visitors,
even in this cold. There is a bird who comes to the porch.
Why? There’s no food for him there. There is an occasional,
similarly deluded squirrel, whose chilled brain believes
he packed an acorn in the concrete. But I like best
these cat tracks, found this morning, how they proceed
in a straight line with such purpose, then suddenly show
the awful realization that this march is pointless,
and reverse direction, toward his warm kitchen.

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