The feral cat is on the deck looking in at me through the glass panes of the kitchen door. The humidity and moisture collected on the windows make her look like an impressionistic painting. Grey tabby, green deck, rose colored petals from the blooming tree, the muted color of the kitchen in the early morning half-light. Beyond, the spread of green lawn and shrubs, a ragged little flower garden overgrown. The cat has grown more comfortable with our presence but still comes only at feeding times. Now, however, she begins to linger. I figure we are her only friends.
No more time to linger. Coffee gone. Another day.
i wish you had taken a photo of that.
ReplyDeletei'm a bit worn out for words these days. i'm trying to write again - poems - challenged myself to write 7 "things" in 7 days. at least see if there is any juice left in the tank.
Me, too.
ReplyDelete