Evening

Uncategorized

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

from skywards

all akimbo from the trembling songs

the brush whisker

that silken paw.

 

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