I call you Ha,
 my feral cat,
 mute
 it is the only thing
 you know to say
 as
 hackles raised,
 spitting,
 you come
 begging to be fed
 with a warlike ha ha ha.

 This month of vacation
 you and your kittens
 ate well
 puzzled at the ample spread
 your fierceness extorted.
 White and beautiful
 under the olive tree
 you blink at me
 in disdain.

 The lean months
 are right ahead
 when summer houses close
 and food comes occasionally
 like mana from heaven
 during weekend visits.

 Mice and birds
 beware.