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.