The cats' fancy

Outside the attic window,
a bird flew against the glass;
not hurt, he flapped again and chirped.

Up the attic stairs, thunderous steps
the sound of one hundred elephants, times two;
it was only Mao, the tuxedo and his brother, Cheddar, the orange tabby,
come to claim their dinner territory.

Poised on the narrow balustrades at top of attic staircase,
each feline stood, delicately perched, tippy toes, all four;
Mao yelped plaintively and swiped under the crack
between the air conditioner and the window.

"Birdie, birdie, I know you're out there. I can see you,
hear you; I want to touch you, feel you, eat you. Yum."

Cheddar joined  Mao in the futile hunt for the bird trapped
outside the window. Cheddar sqeaked: "I'm too big for
this balustrade. I want to swipe, but fear I might fall off. I feel so frustrated."

Seeing a 6-foot drop on carpeted stairs, I did not fear the worst for
either bird or cats. The normally lazy, somnolent kitties reared
their ugly, beasty heads.  This is their territory, they can handle the
consequences.

Mao swiped again, gurgling a low Meow. Cheddar swiped, too.
In my mind's eye, I saw Mao and Ched tip to one side of the balustrade
and fall down 6 feet of stairs, disgruntled and shamed they could not
achieve their King of the Jungle Hunter status today.

I opened my eyes to see Mao and Cheddar resolute in their stance,
firm in their resolve, waiting a long moment until bird gets bored
(or frightened) and flies away.

Determined to put them out of their misery, I walked into the kitchen
and opened a can of 9 Lives Beef with Slices.

Thunderous steps, the sound of one hundred elephants, times two.
Mao bubbled Meows in a series, Cheddar squeaked three times.
I was treated to a chorus of the Cats' Fancy, twice this morning.