Cat.
Feral black cat.

No name that I know of, 
no name that I would presume to bestow. 
For ten years I have addressed him
by his title: 
“Cat”. 

Sometimes he comes by for a leisurely visit.
He meows, I sing-song: “kitty-cat”.
His four paws step delicately in a single line,
the tail flicks my knees.
As I stroke his slick arched back,
he weaves infinity signs 
around and around my ankles —
a hypnotic ritual of joy. 

Sometimes he shows up 
skittish, bristling,
not wishing to be touched.
He eats the offered food quickly, 
silently melts into the night,
black into black. 

Sometimes he meets me 
as I am taking a walk in the evening:
emerges from the cover of a bush,
follows me to my house,
flickering out in the shadows.

Sometimes he appears on my porch
night after night, for a week.

Sometimes he is gone for a month or more.
I fret, walk around the neighborhood,
pausing by every promising bush,
calling him, knowing it is in vain. 
His comings and goings are not predictable,
are not governed by my concerns. 

It would be a human conceit
to imagine that the cat intends
to teach me non-attachment.
But I learn, nonetheless. 

In the supermarket,
I pack seven cans of “seafood dinner” into my bag.
The purchase is an act of hope. 
I have not seen him in weeks.

The cashier asks with genuine interest:
— What kind of cat do you have?
— I do not have a cat.
Responding to her unspoken question,
I add, wistfully: 
—This is for a friend.
She stares, perturbed. 

I wade deeper into the truth:
—My friend is a cat.
                        

In deep winter the sleeping trees 
dream of branching out,
spreading wider 
than the reach of their earthly lives.

Their roots drink in the stillness 
pooling beneath all layers of the ground.

Their crowns bloom with constellations.
They hum and sing with winged beings
who are tinier than the smallest insect,
greater than the largest bird.

They drop their luminous fruit 
into the stream
that flows far beyond 
the shores of the known world.