The cat waits a breath, poised
on tingling feet atop the skyward fence,
bulwark of barriers between garden and street –
navigable by only those who leap with abandon.
She knows the path
to wrestle with leaves and vines and bugly beetles,
birds and bats and the cat down the way,
capturing for a frozen photograph the hunt,
the flight, and the walking about.  

The woman follows, called
from under the dome that moves with her
most days, champion of chastisement,
watching the fence in a moment of lifting vision.
She sees the cat.
Suburban jungle beckons, mired in mixed signals.
The cat, cat-sure, winds along her sheltering fence,
envied and admired for the elegant bravado,
the wandering, and the watching over.  

The day lingers long, faded
into denim sky followed by hovering clouds,
flowing and filling the careful approach of night –
space for breathing-in the cat’s wilding courage.
She watches the woman
drift through inner space, find the familiar dome,
fold into a couch with pillowed corners –
corner shelters bearing both creatures, the chaser,
the lingerer, and the delicate dark.