Sam

He was a hunter to the very end.

When he could barely lift his head, he would,

Just for the chance of sighting some fat bird

He must have known he could never reach.

He was a terror to the local mice,

Inside the house or on the forest floor –

A legend in the tiny minds of moles –

A dreadful enemy of smaller things.

But to us larger things, he was a friend

As kind as any gentle herbivore.

He would curl up, unbeckoned, by your side,

And purr against you, and the world was right.

And now he hunts in other places, far

From any creature that could do him harm –

From all the slow diminishings of age,

And every ailment of the wasting world.

The woods are thick with every kind of game,

Four-pawed and stutter-winged; the earth is warm,

And softly yielding to the questing paw;

The sky is bright and full of living things.

He stops.  He lifts his head.  The breeze bears in

The sound of twittering; he’s off again.