Hello, furriends, my fellow feather-chasers and daydream dignitaries. Today’s poem is short, sharp, and startlingly accurate. Emily Dickinson may never have stalked a robin herself, but she clearly observed someone who had. In “She Sights a Bird,” she captures the art of the hunt—the thrill, the precision, the heartbreak—with feline fidelity.
Let’s take a look at her poetic portrait of one of our oldest instincts.
A Look at “She Sights a Bird” by Emily Dickinson
She sights a Bird – she chuckles –
She flattens – then she crawls –
She runs without the look of feet –
Her eyes increase to Balls –
Her Jaws stir – twitching – hungry –
Her Teeth can hardly stand –
She leaps, but Robin leaped the first –
Ah, Pussy, of the Sand,
The Hopes so juicy ripening –
You almost bathed your Tongue –
When Bliss disclosed a hundred Toes –
And fled with every one –
My Thoughts
Ah, Miss Emily. A human who almost understood the essence of the hunt—and honestly, that’s closer than most.
She opens with perfection:
She sights a Bird – she chuckles –
Yes. That moment—when the world narrows to one fluttering shape, and the heart purrs with anticipation. The chuckle isn’t laughter, not really. It’s a vibration. A “Yes, this is my moment” hum.
She flattens – then she crawls –
Exactly. Low and slow. The art form passed from paw to paw. I practice it regularly on sock monsters and red dots.
She runs without the look of feet –
Now that is a compliment. So often our elegance is overlooked. But Emily saw it—the shadow-glide of a body powered by purpose, seeming to float above the ground.
Then, the heartbreak.
She leaps, but Robin leaped the first –
Ah, the tragedy! So much preparation, so much controlled tension—and then the prey flutters away. I have known this sorrow. I have embodied this sorrow.
And this line?
You almost bathed your Tongue –
That’s the worst kind of loss. The “almost-taste.” The dream slipping just out of reach. The tail feather moment that never quite touches your tongue.
There’s something Emily does that I admire: She doesn’t clutter the moment. There’s no extra fluff—just the cat, the bird, the chase. The anticipation. The agony. The almost.
But I do have one small objection:
Ah, Pussy, of the Sand—
Now, I realize this was written in the 1800s. Language has evolved. But “Pussy of the Sand” sounds like a mirage. A flicker. I assure you—we cats are not illusions. We are presence. We are certainty. We are on the sand, in the grass, and definitely on the countertop, no matter what you say.
And that robin? It knew. Birds aren’t as clueless as they look. They watch us just as much as we watch them. They know what it means when our shoulders dip or our eyes widen. They toy with us.
Which brings us to this:
Her eyes increase to Balls –
Yes. That moment when the hunt reaches its peak. Your whole body disappears. You become vision. Nothing exists but the prey. You are sight and hunger and decision, shaped like fur. And when fate flaps away? We stretch. Gracefully. And pretend we never wanted that bird anyway.
(But we did.)
A Tribute: “The One That Got Away (Again)”
A poem by Tyson the Cat
I see you.
Feathers bright,
perched like you own the fence.
I chuckle.
(It’s not laughter.
It’s… hunger.
And destiny.
And joy with claws.)
I crouch—
so low I disappear
into the breath of the grass.
Tail still. Whiskers forward.
Time stops.
So do I.
Then—
leap!
A streak of fur and hope—
but air is empty.
The fence is still.
You are not.
I land.
Gracefully. Always.
(We pretend it was a stretch.)
And the sky holds you,
smug and flapping,
as I sit below,
dreaming of the taste
of triumph
and tail feathers.
The Art of the Almost
Emily Dickinson did not romanticize the hunt—she honored it. She captured that razor-edge moment when focus becomes instinct, when hope quivers just out of reach, and the world holds its breath.
And then…
the flutter.
the leap.
the loss.
But that moment before—when you know it’s yours? That’s the heart of the poem. And the heart of the cat.
Your Turn, Furriends!
Have you ever had your own “almost” moment—whether it involved birds, dreams, or the last treat in the dish? Does this poem capture the feline hunt you know so well? Leave your thoughts in the comments—and remember: we always leap again.
Purrs and tail feathers unclaimed,
Tyson 🐾
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