Cheetah

A puff of softness, your baby mews
scratch the air to silvers of high-pitched yelps
hunting a mother's milk.
A bundle of tight energies
set to explode —
baby claws that glide like soft razors
playful preparation for tense shadows
that break and splinter death on tall grasses
as the future bursts in a long lean wave
of wind-sired cat.

— Janet Butler