Rubs its black fur against the grains of light
that push and push then tumble
but no crash; just gentle call of crickets
that thicken the lines across their voices
until they make that blanket
we might call night.
Night doesn’t answer.
Even when the lids go down and the
cat prowl moon eyes the possibilities
all akimbo from the trembling songs
the brush whisker
that silken paw.