June is already too warm for comfort.

My orange cat hunts outside, brings a bird,
still breathing, to the back porch.
Blood dots the greying wood, and she bites
and bites and bites until all that is left
is a head and a few bunched of feathers,
stained red. It is a gruesome scene
for something so soft. I cannot look away.
I remember in the winter, her white belly
blending in with the snow,
and the too many nights she spent
curled up on the cellar roof,
outside my father’s window.
I know this is just her nature. 
I know that bird did nothing
to deserve it’s fate, and when my cat
curls up next to me at night,
softly purring, she is nothing
more than an animal I choose to love.