Every night the cat comes and roosts next to me. Even if she has been attending to another member of the family, there is always the moment of her padding lightly and with purpose across the comforter like so much thick snow and settling herself, back turned, tail flicking, nonchalant and without obvious expectation
unless
I reach out to pet the luxury of her fur, in which case she will turn and give me her full attention.
Throughout the night she will come and go, often without my knowing. By morning she has resumed her vigil downstairs for breakfast, a shadow on the dining room carpet in the pale light of dawn, having perfected the fine art of patiently waiting which I wish I knew how to learn.
Thank you, readers!
The Poetry Patio 