She lies in shady spots, avoiding heat,
Apparently asleep but still alert,
Occasionally turning at a sound,
Until one makes her jump up from the ground
To snarl and roar her breakfast through the dirt
And tear it limb from limb, to lifeless meat.

She mostly sits and licks her luscious fur
Or stretches out across the morning bed.
She yawns sometimes as if to bare her teeth
But that's the only hint: it's clear beneath
Her stealthy, shiny coat she's born and bred
Domestic. Food is all that bothers her.

She flattens jungles just to find a meal:
A snarling, roaring hunter in her voice.
The bones of breakfasts fought and clearly won
Are litter in the sand beneath a sun
Which challenges each morning with the choice
Of more ferocious fun, or time to heal.

She fears the fire but jumps up anyway
To feel a warmth she doesn't find elsewhere.
Approaching her to stroke her's a mistake:
She'll shred your loving arms; she'll make
You wonder what the hell is in her stare.
Perhaps you understand why she was stray?