rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Oh, dear. A third kitty has turned up. It's a black and white kitty, and is very friendly. She (I think it's female) knows people, and knows how to meow to get their attention. She ate the food I left out for the feral cats. I sat in a chair on the porch and she rubbed her face on my legs and shoes. She wants to come indoors.

The second-last think I need is to have a cat moving in. The very last thing I need is to have a cat with long hair moving in. The brushing, the matting, the shedding. The visits to the vet. Collecting the cat to take along if we have to evacuate because of another wildfire. Keeping the feral cats away from her. If she's not neutered, despite her obvious familiarity with people and the likelihood that she's had a home with someone, the feral cats are going to try to mate with her, and will probably fight over her. If she's been neutered, they'll fight with her when they discover she's been eating their food.

I'll have to be careful every time I go out and come back in, or she'll be darting through the door the way cats dart. I think I'll check the next issue of the local paper I never buy to see if there's a notice from someone seeking a lost cat. I do hope she has a home to return to, because this is no place for her. She's awfully cute, though.

And there's another small flying insect of the sort I unintentionally crushed on my keyboard a couple of weeks ago. It's sitting on my papaya enzyme that I was going to take for my indigestion (pizza for dinner.) I very nearly picked it up and stuck it in my mouth, bug and all. It's a good thing I pay more attention to what I put in my mouth than I do to what might be on my keyboard when I'm typing.

Nice weather, and a chance of rain is now predicted for four days beginning Tuesday. That will be even better— but not for the new cat. Oh, dear.

Sunday Verse

As For Poets

by Gary Snyder

As for poets
The Earth Poets
Who write small poems,
Need help from no man.

The Air Poets
Play out the swiftest gales
And sometimes loll in the eddies.
Poem after poem,
Curling back on the same thrust.

At fifty below
Fuel oil won't flow
And propane stays in the tank.
Fire Poets
Burn at absolute zero
Fossil love pumped backup

The first
Water Poet
Stayed down six years.
He was covered with seaweed.
The life in his poem
Left millions of tiny
Different tracks
Criss-crossing through the mud.

With the Sun and Moon
In his belly,
The Space Poet
No end to the sky-
But his poems,
Like wild geese,
Fly off the edge.

AMind Poet
Stays in the house.
The house is empty
And it has no walls.
The poem
Is seen from all sides,
At once.


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