The poem involves an animal, albeit a small animal at the very end.
had troubles contemplating a poem “about” and animal, and came up with this.
Enjoy.. yeah, Iknow it’s late.

Siesta Kitchen

A smallish sultry room is cooled
by the shade of a rusted tin roof
Sunlight spills through an open window,
No breeze billows the old sheer curtains.

The previous color of the walls
begin to tint the white washed walls,
their dusty chalk rubbed off by wear
long past and swept away with care.

The well-worm broom leans on the wall,
and keeps a lonlely vigil over
a wooden table, knicked and scrtched,
which covers three straight back chairs.

A couple of pots and handful of dishes,
clenaed and stacked, dry by the sink.
An old dishrag draped over the faucet,
has a drop forming on its lowest point.

A still life except for a single fly
that buzzes in a lazy arc and lands
on the dishrag and crawls around.
It then resumes its lazy flight.

Leah, I very much like your water piece, particularly the spider simile and crocodile metaphor!

There is no goat.
I can hardly believe it.
But it has been declared
On national TV
By the head man.
I must accept it.

I remember my Dad
Personally ironing
His white apron
With the blue and gold,
Its tiny suitcase,
And my Mum poking fun.

Hearing the banter,
I loved to imagine
Jolly half-naked fathers
Riding that billy-goat
In their nice clean aprons.
As it pranced, tossing its horns.

That must be when I first
Heard the word “regalia”.
Much older, I liked to think
Of an inner circle of Magic,
And the goat perhaps
A metaphor for Pan.

But to learn that there is no
Goat, no ride, no dancing,
No half-nude cavorting
Of any kind – that’s cruel.
No secrets, no mystery …
No more magic.

Note: Dan Browns’ next book will be about Freemasonry.
The Masons have pre-emptively revealed that they have no secret rituals.

Ready to snatch
By stealth or speed
They loiter around
Looking innocent
All the while ready
To act

The cats in my house
Are chasing me out.

What is it they say?
Don’t walk so slowly
like a tortoise
But my tortoises
Walk real fast
like an F1 driver
Once, they walked so fast
They almost disappeared
like a puff of smoke
So, whoever said that must have
Had a really weird tortoise
like an old man.

The kayak slips past the yawning sea which is
Sleepy under white clouds and forgives the transgression
Of the paddle stealing power and the illusion of mastery
Which is often with us, though we are prettified parasites
Underneath our unknowing sky.

We skim like water-spiders, we feel we are
Made for this place, at one with ourselves,
And maybe we are, and maybe we aren’t.
We believe we are molded for these moments
Where we hold the world between two hands and
Breathe in victory and sweat and wonder-
That we belong where we are best, but
We forget we weren’t born with paddles in hand,
Who’s to say our best act isn’t mediocre to minds,
Dragged from the depths of our selves, but lasting,
But a girdle ‘round misfortune and important as
The beams of light that cities stand on tiptoe for.

The sea is vast, and right now it is a resting crocodile
With the spines of its back just barely tipping above
Into waves that we crest.
Later, the sea will rise and snap at the shore
And roll and tumble through the water with
All the certainty of death until the stone, the brick,
The book it took is changed, and we remember
That nature effaces what doesn’t belong.