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Poetry: Natural History

 

The day cat bounds from tree to tree,
scattering birds and leaves like blown confetti,
partying with winds and garbage tins,
drunk with sunshine and armed for
amorous conquest of even the shiest
cloud.

The dusk cat stretches all his slow senses,
satiated and dark as moorish coffee.
Heavy with moon and the smells of cooking,
he noses noisily in alleys and crannies
for the softest pillow and the calmest bed.

The night cat curls completely round herself,
spreading stars with the ends of her whiskers,
thrilling her thick tail into a light coverlet,
and snuggling beneath it the purring sleep
of every living thing except one open, golden
eye. 
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