le chat

there is the cat. waiting in the grass. waiting for what we all wait for. for life, its possibility. there in the green field, adjacent the church, she sits with her back to me, to the street. her neck turned at an angle to suggest it is not attached to her body but rather resting on it casually like a hat. her ears, the golden yellow of her eyes, some quirky decoration she has turned to face the two story church. its white clamoring toward god. the church is empty. the field is empty, save the cat who needs not saving, not even spiritual uplifting. the cat is merely waiting for the next moment in life to call her to do something different than this one. this one being perfect for sitting in a grassy field adjacent a small white church. from the porch I count the moments of. there is the cat, the church, the motorcycle that sits between us. another possibility. more death than life. or rather arcing more quickly toward the end than the beginning. but not unreasonably so. one must learn to die in the same way one learns to live. the cat turns her best sunday hat toward me. it is clear i do not understand. to see only objects: the field, the church, the street, the bike. to miss the sky. to miss always what is beyond the frame. to fear what is ample. time.