rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Now are the moments when the air stills and last light, filtered by the woods westward, streaks the facade. The back yard is already in shade, only the treetops gleaming. The bees have departed and, where fresh green shoots of grass break the brown lawn, the finches have left off pecking and gone to their nests. A pair of woodpeckers make their evening calls from distant trees, and a single crow passes silently. All afternoon warm southerly breezes sounded in the leaves, but now the empty sky is silent.

Full night will bring cooler breezes from the north and the rustling leaves and humming pine needles will accompany the chirping of the woken crickets, and perhaps I'll hear the rushing of stronger winds from the canyon, but this scant hour of declining summer day is all repose. The cats will arrive soon, looking for their evening handout. They may already be watching me through the fence slats, waiting for me to quit the porch where they will find the bowls of food and water. They will bring with them a tranquility equal to the evening's.

Sunday Verse


by Charles Baudelaire

Lovers, scholars— the fervent, the austere—
grow equally fond of cats, their household pride.
As sensitive as either to the cold,
as sedentary, though so strong and sleek,

your cat, a friend to learning and to love,
seeks out both silence and the awesome dark...
Hell would have made the cat its courier
could it have controverted feline pride!

Dozing, all cats assume the svelte design
of desert sphinxes sprawled in solitude,
apparently transfixed by endless dreams;

their teeming loins are rich in magic sparks,
and golden specks like infinitesmal sand
glisten in those enigmatic eyes.

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