Walking the Cat
by Tasha Cotter
Every word an upturned ear.
Leaf blowers, trucks, all spark anxiety.
Even the occasional fly bemuses her.
First, all she cares to know is the perimeter.
To know the easy inches of her private indoor view.
She sniffs the known landing strip of doves
And listens for hidden danger.
But mostly, she sits in deep thought at my feet,
Smelling the breeze. I let the leash go loose
And we both try to know the essence of the thing.
The distance is alive and we stare
Past the split rail fence at a little white dog
Romping in a far off yard
Like a poet at play delivering words
To a patient page. I hear a voice
Shout encouragement from somewhere unseen
And the dog returns with the thrown object
Carefully placing it at his feet.