5 November 2013 Its belly dragged along the ground as it danced forward each foot guiding its wave- like movement back and forth, side to side a belly dancer with a shiny shimmy tail glistening in the sun. Both nearly blocked my vision to the act I was to witness Its gleam caught my kitten’s eyes, which also gleamed and absorbed all the light and life in my backyard as she hunted everything that flinched. As the slight breeze caught my hair, making it wave before my face, attempting to spare me from seeing this thing—a natural slaughter. We hide in vain my long mane of vanity cannot protect me from reality I can shimmy my way through but I can’t escape truth. Life happens, and death comes too and my kitten’s fresh red whiskers are prettier than the faux rouge on my two lips. My tulips are far fairer than my flesh even if plucked. But my two lips should be plucked away by the fierce feline fighting fallacy licking her whiskers with a blush I should always have instead of cover up. My kitten kicks up the dirt to cover up not indecency, but foul scent or mass. She is much wiser than I because she only buries the waste not the act of life. Back and forth we go, going through the motions of routine and scheduled life. The great choreography is too rehearsed. My kitten never trips because her grace is unplanned.