Ginger tom under a car's carriage glares at me.
He, the bob-tailed calico, is the mouser, I'm sure.
Twin black kittens stalk leaves
while tortoise queen on the wall,
above us all, yawns.
An old woman feeding you tells me
there are nine in your tribe
points to rousing white cat, tattered ear
and here, a striped tiger tripping down the steps
and over there, where a green-eyed bi-color
is coming up the hill.
Still one missing, I say.
Where's nine?
We've more than one life,
the old woman grins,
spins round, bound for home,
tail tied up
with her apron stings.
