The Hunt

The businessman walks out his front door, he sees a cat.
Spitefully, the cat hisses at him, the businessman looks upset.
Undaunted he makes his way to the bus stop.
He waits there with the others in the cold dark morning. even the sun has not risen yet.
Everything is as through a cold blue filter.
The bus is late and over crowded. It is damp; through is seats to the condensation laced ceiling.
The businessman thinks to himself. He tugs his sleeve up over his hand and wipes at the cold stale fogged glass and looks out through the newly formed arc.
The bus lumbers over speed bumps, each minor road blemish exagerated to harsh jolts via stiff sprung suspention and an unsofisticated use of the excellerator pedal.
The businessman hugs himself and feels the dank begin to evaporate from his body. He is dozy in the stale air. He falls into dream.
The noise and shunting of the bus melt away. He is a cat, on the hunt, under the cover of darkness.
Hidden in the bush, no one can see. There is the bird hopping and pecking.
Transfixed by the creature and biding its time the cat crouches immobile waiting to strike.
This craft is not learnt nor happened upon, It is a knot in the belly, a heartbeat suspended. Almond eyes follow every sudden action.
And in the muck, the claws grasp, feeling for traction. Tention rips through the hunters wiry muculature ready to pounce.
Bang. A door slams, the bird vanishes in a micro-second movement, the cat in its predator trance leaps then recoils at the sight of a the businessman.
The hunt is over.


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