Cats in Fog

When fog steals down the coast,

fell cats follow its leading edge,

pouncing on tendrils,

hoping for that one-in-a-million mist creature

whose sweet flesh

feeds dreams.

But joy in movement is reward enough

in the still hours before dawn.

Miles later they swing home,

wet furred and weary,

having wrestled fog to a draw.

How lazy they seem on hearth and hammock.

Yet round the edges,

like far bells,

a marrow-deep pull

stirs the urge to prowl

the next gray-white bank

for the

unmet unseen

barely beyond reach.