The breeze is like a slinking kit.
It moves and stops and waits crouching.
It springs forward to catch its helpless prey
With icy teeth only to release it like a flopping fish
That is thrown back with a splash
And is hooked again,
Or like a mouse that runs pell mell
Back and forth between the paws that bat it like a birdie.
The gust of wind pounces on its kitten,
Opens up its reddened maw,
Swallows whole what the breeze has caught,
And then recedes,
Leaving once again the gentle breath of air,
That cat like licks the tousled tops of trees and my hair.