That bee is like no other bee.
The bee I see behaves as a bee,
but is unique as a bee,
and is unlike any before or after bee.
It bumbles free by the tufts of grass
below the green blue bell stems.
To be a bee or not to be a bee
is not the question that would
be asked by a bee,
for a bee has no brain,
and cannot therefore perplex itself
to stretch its hold on remaining sane.
Such a choice does not exist for a bee,
and it would not know how to contemplate
as an existential bee.
Those gulls are loud and have to be,
to be heard above the waves of the sea.
That is your life, cat,
to sit at the foot of the bush,
your hope to catch a bird,
but I smile to know,
you will never snatch
a sparrow or a starling,
for they perch and preen
on the highest twigs,
but you will never learn.
Eventually, you turn,
pad over the lawn, sit by the pond,
your hope to catch a frog,
which I know you never will.
At least, you are never chased by a dog.
Through a crack in the back wall
or over a fence, finally, you vanish,
return to your owner’s garden,
who no doubt gives you milk
and cans of fishy cat food,
and who put a collar round your neck,
attached to it a bell,
which I hear at times ring.
Not that bad a life, cat,
I conclude, as sunshine
makes my garden very green,
to my pleasure, as I contemplate
my first mown lawn of spring.