Tom Cat

In the chill,
Autumn's morning
stirs the crows
into noise and
frenzied squirrels
make like boots,
stomping with
their entireties,
shuffling as they go.

Out back,
the tom cat
I sometimes see
when walking the dirt road
is sitting on his back side,
leaning against fallen stones.
Squinting at the glare,
his hind feet pointed out,
Northeast and Southwest,
He is a feline compass,
soaking up prenoon sun.

Nuthatches flit like
dragonflies, back and forth.
Over the stream,
choke cherry to
red-hipped dog rose,
they go, chirping
coffee klatch conversations.

The sky is blue and huge.
Its stance, as if staring
down a black bear,
it holds itself hard;
enlarging its presence
for maximum effect.

I am yawning,
still but content;
thinking, as I will,
of city folk and their
missing these morning.
I wonder what wonders
New York City might be,
at this moment,
beholding; a vague
consideration, as I
warm myself by the wood stove
and through the window,
spy on that tom cat.


© 2009 N. Chaplin
All Rights Reserved