Big Cat of Hong Kong
From his perch on the rooftop over twenty stories above the ground, the leopard looked at the buildings across the bay. At this time of night the dancing midnight lights on tall buildings attracted his eyes as if they were prey.
Through a breeze coming from the south he could smell the spoor of his kind. It was familiar, hauntingly so, but he stayed away. He knew that scent, it his mother. She still lived on the mountain. He missed her, but feared her more. He remembered the searing pain across his flank. Ever since he had been able to catch his own prey, she had forced him away.
He took a deep breath and sighed it out with the quiet of a ghost. Not that it mattered, his prey never heard him. Even were he close to the ground, the stinking machines that carried prey were as load as his roar. The only time prey could hear him was when he wished it so. On the other hand, prey could not hide from his ears. Whether they stomped, scuttled, and crept - he heard it all.
The leopard looked down and licked the carcass of it's meal. The bird had been the slowest out of a flock. He had coughed on the dust and dander of the avian, but the flesh had been tasty. Yet he was still hungry, flying birds never sated him.
Silent as a ghost the leopard came to his feet and crossed the roof. The roughness of the concrete was the same as that of the ground far below. To the leopard they were one and the same, just at different altitudes. Up here he caught birds, down below he caught anything that couldn't fly.