On an unnamed afternoon

in late June, an orange cat
rests atop the roof covering
the basement door alcove,
shading herself from Kentucky sun.
Another approaches: stray tabby, 
skinny enough for his bones
to be seen around his ribcage,
contrasted with his round face
and squeaky meow. He approaches 
the back porch and rubs his head
against my leg, begging for food
and affection. Orange cat rises
from her shade, assuming
a position to attack, but not 
just yet: she watches, silently
observant. I bring food out for
the tabby and stand between 
the two creatures. It’s okay, baby,
I say, it’s safe to eat. Orange cat
is not known for her kindness;
she is territorial, a survivalist,
and before we took her in we knew
she had gotten in fights with the 
other cats—it is natural for both 
of them to be afraid, to be ready 
at any moment to hunt and be hunted.
The tabby eats then walks down
the porch steps, and the orange cat
watches from her little
corner of rooftop as the tabby jumps onto
the picnic table below and stretches.
He exposes his belly and sleeps
in the afternoon warmth. All he ever wanted
was a meal and to feel the sun in his fur.