It's Still Life

The Cat and the Cloud
(Or: A Feline Declaration of War on Weather)

The cat lies sprawled in his sunbeam,
belly up,
eyes half-closed,

when a cloud drifts lazily across the sky
and steals his light.

He blinks.
Warmth gone.
Shadow.
Cold.
The impertinence of it.

He sits up,
ears flat,
tail bristling.

“Old Woman,” he hisses,
“that cloud is messing
with my sunny spot.
My carefully curated
afternoon nap.”

She glances up
from matching pairs of socks.
“It’s just a cloud, cat.
It’ll move.”

“Not fast enough.
Not remorsefully enough.
Not with the proper respect
for my sovereignty.”

He leaps to the windowsill,
presses a paw to the glass,
and swats at the sky.

The cloud does not flinch.

“Did you see that?
Nothing but defiance.
Atmospheric hubris.”

He tries again.
A second swat,
more dramatic
than the last.

“You think you’re above me?” he yowls.
“You think you can drift
as you please?

The cloud drifts slower,
as if taunting him.

The cat pauses,
panting,

“Fine.
You want a war?
You’ve got one.

The Old Woman hides a smile.
“You know it’ll be dark soon …”

The cat doesn’t look away.
“Then I shall glare in the dark.
The principle remains.”

The old woman watches the clouds gathering,
and thinks it’s like watching a puzzle come together.