Maybe because, like them, we
spend hours sitting by a window
or staring at a spot on the floor,
intently doing nothing. 

Or it’s the hours we keep–wakeful
at night, roused by the moon, its silver
light moving us to sing. We’re both fond
of naps and the mystery of dreams. 

Could it be our fascination with common
objects: pens, scraps of paper, 
the way we push and pat them just
to see what they will do?

Perhaps they notice our eyes, how
they go from distant to focused 
in a heartbeat, how we spend hours
chasing prey no one else can see.