June 27, 2012


Leaf latticework covers the ceiling of our yard. Each layer is thin, like tissue paper, creating imponderable shades of green, all surrounded by blue and laced with twiggy brown.

She sits, to the unfamiliar eye, in a relaxed position, but beneath her voluminous grey fur, paws tensely hold the ground in place. a breeze sweeps over her waving fur, but she does not move. The sunlight dapples her back and reveals rivers of orange, resembling marble, and lakes of white, a white necklace, two white socks in front, two white boots behind. Still, she remains. Careful observation reveals the flicking yellow eyes, the sole deliberately moving part of her.

Her tail begins to slowly curl side to side, as though making sure there is no one creeping up behind her. Then it happens.


A small object made of nothing visible to the human eye is chased, then captured, escapes, is pursued again, then finally vanquished with a triumphant flick of the tail.

{There is, incidentally, no way of talking about cats that enables one to come off as a sane person.}
Dan Greenberg

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