The power of silent movement

The brush bristled and flew from his palette
painting the cat white.

He pirouetted, flinging death's black shadow
on the empty wall, his smock billowing in
mortal terror.

She grabbed her moment, sneaking away to meet
her backdoor breeches.

Hypnotised and seated, small one stirred and stirred
the rise from his batter that night.

Mouse shrugged and returned to his peephole
sniggering at the cat flaunting his new white coat.