Red on the Rail

Morning chill biting deep. I crawled out from beneath the step riser and hauled my bulk up the porch corner post. Peeling paint bit my paws. Over the edge, a stiff garden twig reached in—dangling a tight cluster of blood-red berries over the timber. Trembling in the breeze. Staring right at me. I dropped flat on my belly, jaws clenched tight. Stalked forward inch by stubby inch along the flat handrail. One sudden spring. Both plush paws slammed down across the branch. The twig cracked under my weight, two berries bursting into thick crimson pulp across the weathered white wood. Stilled. Pinned flat. My red mark claimed the perimeter.