Inside a narrow crease of stone,
three kittens press against her ribs.

Their paws knead at fur and milk.

Outside, frost clings to sage.
By midday, this den may already be temporary.

Bobcat mothers move their young often,
one small body carried gently in her jaws,
keeping scent from settling too long in any one place.
She rises.
The den holds warmth.

The morning holds hunger.
She slips from rock into brush.

Dawn gathers softly 
the hour her eyes are built for.
Along the edge of grass, a rabbit feeds.
She lowers into stillness.
Minutes stretch.

Wind shifts.
Then lightning.
A single bound covers more than ten feet.

Silence follows.

By the time the sun reaches the ridge,
she climbs back through stone.
Milk returns.

Warmth gathers again.
Her body carries the narrow bridge
between their small hunger
and the wide, unbothered world.
Weeks pass.
She moves them again.

And again.
Each den chosen with care.

Each relocation quiet and deliberate.
When their legs grow steady,
she leads them along fallen timber.

Shows them how to crouch.

How to move like liquid shadow.

Kittens stay with her nearly a year,
learning patience before power.
Precision moves forward that way.
Across the Rockies, some mothers raise their young in open country.
Others raise them in shadow.
Either way, the work stays steady.
Milk and muscle.

Hunger and patience.

Until the right moment comes to set out on their own.

In spring, every valley fills with mouths to feed.
Turkey poults step into grass.

Fawns wobble into light.

Kittens blink against the dawn.
Life leans forward everywhere at once.

And every mother, predator or prey,
answers the same call.
Turns out, the wild has been sorting out supper and survival
long before any of us started keeping score.
​