Free Range Poetry

early morning is the hour of the cat

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.

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