I watched a cat in my garden attacking a bird.
2 separate species surviving on instinct.
Going about their business as the creator intended.
It's gone 10a.m and I'm peering at the world,
through a french window,
via dehydrated eyes,
burning images in the back of a mind,
lacking stimulation and exercise.
A mound of muscle and membrane slowly giving up the ghost.
Receding into the decline,
like the hairline,
on the head of the host.
The who stares vacantly,
as a cat attacks a bird,
“where's MY instincts gone?”