The Cat

The cat doesn't need much door to get in,
he slips by when I go out
to the morning's slant light.

I walk the road down to a thin layer
of ground fog draped over Foster Meadow.
A bird lands in the grass, I don't know

the voice so I move up, the bird moves back,
I move up again and he moves back,
we play this inchworm dance until he wearies

and flies off to the far hedgerow,
and finds a perch past a barbwire fence.
I take the Sand River trail,

a dark-hair woman is already on the path,
she says, "My name is Kate." We crunch the gravel,
listen to bullfrogs and a wren,

I talk about computers and Thai food,
she talks about metaphysics and soccer.
The trail splits and she follows the river

downstream, I turn back to my hut,
I go in and the cat slips out,
he doesn't need much door.