Pounce

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.

Pounce.

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

wrench me away soon

The sun gently laid his warm robe on my shoulder as I looked to the light emanating from the flat screen rising tilted before me. Black words swam in white and blue waters and mesmerized me. I gave just a glance at the annoying reflection of the window that rested comfortably in the wall. Minutes passed, the words greedily hogging my eyes. Finally, the reflection wrenched my eyes back again: a perfect image of the window, the curtain, and the trees outside. I spun around, astonished by the clarity of the reflection. I rose and left the laptop to rest for a while and simply let my eyes wander about the picture in the window frame, my eyes focusing and refocusing between the graceful and eccentric curves of the wavy glass and the brilliant scene of golden sunlight on the trees. The laptop fan woke me back into the realization of what I had been reading. With a quick turn I re-seated myself, the reflection still consuming my retina. With a gentle hand, I closed the lid, slipped off my shoes and let my feet become reacquainted with the grass, my skin resuming its old friendship with sun, and my eyes making new friends among the leaves.

"Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair."
Kahlil Gibran

my hours

A delicious kind of silence has overcome the usual humdrummity of the house. No distant boards creaking in response to a footstep, however light. Only the whirling mechanics of the refrigerator hear the snappy keys as I type. I am alone but for the dog who is napping, and the cat who has commenced outdoor adventures.

All day I have looked forward to these two or three hours of the house all to myself. Each car that slows makes my heart beat in disappointed anticipation, fearing the worst: someone has come home. Not that I don't want them home. No, indeed, I love when our house is full and lively, singing and footsteps echoing through the halls. After a while, it will get too lonely here anyway.

What is so enticing about having the house to myself? I honestly don't know completely. Part of it may be the freedom. I can dance (which I do), sing at the top of my lungs, take the stairs two at a time, explore nooks and crannies without fear of another voice to interrupt my doings. Memories come to life, drifting around my vision like misty rain. Each movement is a secret, no one seeing or hearing in our far from soundproof house. It is nothing I would ever hide, yet, the secretiveness is thrilling in a small and enjoyable way.

I must, however, take my leave; songs are impatient to be sung and the kitchen has asked me to dance...

"Language... has created the word "loneliness" to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word "solitude" to express the glory of being alone."

Paul Johannes Tillich