this morning,
life waged itself
under the pin oak
in our shaggy
suburban lawn

with a flash of
russet-feathered
talons and a
tumble of grey fur.

it could have gone
either way.

today, grey fur fled
and russet feathers flew
and no one had
a perfect morning,

but everyone lived
to try again.

if that isn’t defiant joy
shaking her fist
at the tiger
I don’t know what is.