Because cats would grow wings just to mess with us if they could.

The cat folds her wings in the garden
She drives all the squirrels away
Then suns herself without asking for pardon
And won’t even come over to play!

My brother chases her daily
And I offer saucers of milk,
But always she flies away gaily
Over fields to the rest of her ilk.

So often we’ve tried hard to follow
But always she flies so fast
That we see only mouse and barn swallow
And the sheep dog asleep in the grass.

Where does she go from our arbor?
Who has taught her to fly?
Why is our garden her parlor?
Are there fairies there that pass by?

Winged Mischief copyright © Heather Strickler 2025 all rights reserved