One last kill

Three years or more since she last dragged in

a fledgling, she sits by the window

watching a blackbird bob around outside:

a baby – reddish, rough-edged, unfinished-looking.

 

The door is slightly open,

the bird oblivious.

 

Instinct at least unblunted by age,

she calculates angles and trajectories,

tail flicking from side to side.

 

Might there be one last kill left in her?