The cat was absent at breakfast,
a first,
and
unappetizing feeling found me.
I sought, and called softly
in the pale predawn air
which carries things
a bit too far.
I heard his pleas
directed at me, but could not see
him,
anywhere-
Curiously
his green flashing pupils
caught my eye
in the mortuary moonlight
looking down
from the rooftop
yelling, cat calling down
at bewildering me.
After I rescued him,
again,
climbed the ladder
convincing him
his life was secure in my hands
we humans,
wondered how
or what
lifted his seventeen-
maybe twenty-pound body
up
and exposed all
forty-degree night...
Perhaps it's all a metaphor,
like when survival
is not a skill
but we do it anyway.
And it dawns on me,
that in reality,
rescues often
go the other way.
Painting by Camille Pissaro, 'Red roofs, corner of a village, winter time' c. 1877 in Public Domain.
