Across the yard he strolls, this is his territory. I talk to him, he pauses, hunkers down, eyes darting. Onward he walks, glancing side to side. I talk to him again, he stops, looks, head tilts side to side. Seeing nothing he walks on. Into the ditch he ducks, disappearing in the tall grasses. Reappearing a short distance on. Through the gate he struts. Into the vacant lot he moves on, prowling for what is next.
Such is the life of the neighborhood Siamese. He is a feral feline and roams over neighborhood searching out morsels and marking his territory. The domestics leave a wide swath for him when he struts across the streets into the vacant lots and old buildings. There are culverts to sleep in, crawl into piles of junk, jump through broken windows. This is his domain, here he rules. Dogs run, rabbits scurry away and birds chirp out warnings.
King of the wild way he is. Life without home, no human comforts to manipulate.
Birds hopping among the leaves, gathering seeds. Tail twitching behind the shrub. Birds chirping and flying hither and yon, pecking away at the grasses. Peaceful moments watching the birds gather up their meal. Sproing, tawny fur jumps out of the shrub. To close had the little bird ventured, he was now the meal.
His majesty dines on his capture. Head in air he crosses to the culvert to relax for a bit and an afternoon nap.