We drove down the narrow alley,
your 1990 Chevy pickup bounces 
over potholes and slides into a
parking spot beside a black SUV
and two large windowless white
vans, the scary kinds you tell
children to  stay away from. 

You grab the blanket and I have
the can of cat food and we slowly 
slip out of the truck cab, planning 
our strategy, quietly closing doors.

Tiny meowing sounds tell us they
are still there, one hiding under
a black SUV, another cries out from
from behind a row of full garbage bins.

We dispense the cat food in various 
locations, imagining that we can
somehow predict the frenetic skittering
patterns of two tiny kittens, left in this
precarious situation.

For two hours we sneak, bargain, urge 
and pounce until you, of course you,
catch the tiny black bundle that wriggles 
and finally succumbs to her captor. 
You patiently coax and conjole this tiny
beast until she is curled in you hands.

The  tabby will have nothing to do
with our sad attempts to block and
capture it, though she does eat a good 
helping of food. She darts out from 
under a van, scrambles behind a pile 
of concrete blocks, and dives into 
a thicket of poison ivy and brush.

You wait, resting and hoping you
can somehow will her to trust you.
After all, her sibling is safe under
the seat of your truck.

It’s dark, a man has come by to
collect his evening supply of aluminum 
cans. He offers us the food someone 
has left for those who need it, but 
we tell him it’s okay, we are hunting 
kittens.

We can’t leave tabby alone, so we
let her sister go, leaving them the
box, blanket and a bowl of water.
At least they had some food.

You look at me with the same big
beautiful eyes as that little six year
old girl who said, “Please, Mommy,
can I bring this one home? He
loves me.” I  know we will be back
tomorrow, hunting kittens to save.

6/12/25
KW