Big Cat, Little Cat

The little cat has a demented look in his eye,
As if some mischievous imp
Had crawled inside his twitching ears 
And burrowed into that fevered brain,
Short-circuiting the fragile feline wiring
That keeps Armageddon
In check.
He's got a knack for timing.
Like now, when the big cat is sleeping
So deeply you might think he'd died
If you didn't hear the faint wheeze
Of his adenoidal breathing, 
He's sprawled on the bed
Like a drunken wedding guest
Spread eagled, 
Paws tucked to his chin.
Perfectly at peace.
The little cat hovers,
Gauging the distance, the angle of approach,
The velocity required and amount of thrust needed,
To propel him from the top of the bureau
Onto the exposed underbelly,
The immaculate white shirt front,
And oblivious paws.
I should cough a warning,
Clap my hands, or thrust out my arm 
To catch the furry falcon In mid stoop.
But who am I to alter the course of nature?