Early morning is the hour of the cat.
He’s always up when I am, oh-four-thirty or so
the moon high, waning gibbous today but still enough light to see with his bright cat eyes – we are well paired in this low light
he speaks impeccable English, better than my Cat, but we need no words
we emerge for coffee and his bowl and the quiet companionship of the black and white hour, this pale gray time of day
he stands on my shoulders as I stand on those who support me, to look out these windows, to have windows out of which to look and
we watch, silent, as the skyhue clockface spins the horizon from black to silver gray to slowly purple peach and patch of bright and brighter bang!
That first pale yellow ray, streaming through the trees, heralds the changing of the hour, squinting in the light, and
just like the clockwork sun
the dog wakes up.