From the Book of Missing Hours

In the before-dawn
stillness of the crickets,
thin sickle-moon, the thistles in the yard
inseparable from their shadows,
from under the front porch
comes an urgent metronome —
Ow?
Ow?
Ow?
Ow?
Ow?

— pure supplication
addressed to no one
in particular, poor feral
cat in heat
counting the ways
in which this endless moment
might be illuminated.
__________

Update: For what it’s worth, this was Via Negativa’s 2000th post.

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Dave Bonta (bio) crowd-sources his problems by following his gut, which he shares with 100 trillion of his closest microbial friends — a close-knit, symbiotic community comprising several thousand species of bacteria, fungi, and protozoa. In a similarly collaborative fashion, all of Dave's writing is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the "share alike" provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).

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