It's Still Life

The Crow’s Supremacy
(Or: A Feline Crisis of Gravity)

The cat is stretched in a sunbeam,
belly exposed,
dignity intact,
one eye fixed on the bare winter tree
where the crow stands.
Stands!
On a twig no thicker than a whisker,
rocking slightly,
as if gravity were a suggestion
it had politely declined.

“How,” the cat breathes,
“can that bird do that?
Stand on a twig?
A twig, Old Woman.
And not fall.
Not even wobble.
I fell off the sofa once.
Once, I remind you.
And you still bring it up.
‘Remember the incident of ’23?’
Yes. I remember.
The cushion moved.
Malicious posturing.”

The Old Woman doesn’t look up from her tea.
“Crows have better balance, cat.
They’re built for it.”

“Built for it,” he repeats,
as if the words themselves are treason.
“I am built for napping.
For judging.
For knocking things off high places.
I do not need to stand on twigs.
I have a sofa.
A good sofa.
With cushions that stay still
now that I have trained them.”

The crow shifts on its twig,
cocks its head,
and lets out a low, knowing caw.

The cat’s tail puffs.
He sits up, suddenly alert.

“You know what?
I could do that.
I simply choose not to.
It’s beneath me.
Literally.
I prefer height with padding.
And a clear view
of the treat cupboard.”

He flops back down,
resuming his sunbeam,
but his eye never leaves the crow.

“Still.
If I did want to…
how long do you think it would take
to learn?
Hypothetically.”

The Old Woman hides a smile.
“Years, probably.”

The cat closes his eyes.
“Too long.”