Swaddled in wool, detective novel on my chest,
Idly stroking purring cat, who arches under my hand
Until I wonder if her hind legs will rise until
They no longer hold onto the couch, but drift up
Up and away. Surely her claws will keep her
In contact with terra firma. I picture her rising
Until she is a constellation spanning half the known
Universe. She hops down and pads away, her tail
A question mark. The world outside my porch
Is almost still: green leaves, gently rippling river,
Clear green dabbed Lilliputian buildings nestled on the far shore
And blue sky, slightly pixilated at the horizon by little clouds.
The syncopated rhythm of wavelets lapping at the shore,
Like a cat enjoying a saucer of milk, signals a long-past boat.
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