Faced With Realizations About Migration, The Cat Pauses (A Ghost Storyt, May 4, 2007, 7:10 a.m.)

Risen and bathed in morning air
Between waking and sleep;
The eastern light remembers night
With shadows that aren't deep.

I've washed the Breakfast dishes, a Plate
And Bowl, but I'm still using
The stained Cup ringed by cold coffee
When I am stalled with thinking:

The cat lurks in the Window Sill.
She presses to the screen
Watching Birds roost in Trees-- Locusts.
This is no time to preen!
A flock of of small yellow Songbirds--
Goldfinches, catch her gleaming eye.
The screen is crowded by her face,
Drawn to dawns early morning sky.

She sees them "arrive" as sober
Little Lights. Slight colors
That fade so timorously
Into the sky's pale palors.

Bright flashes having already sung
This Elysian Field is out
Of sight: a Potter's Field flooded
With light like a low fount.

Some little birds fly to the sun.
Goldfinches are Little
Birds. Goldfinches fly to the sun.
The screen is not brittle;
She can not chase the Little Birds.
Either the Birds will fly to the bright
Son or the Sun will fly to these Birds.
She can not run into the bright light.

The Sun did not fly to these birds,
Therefore the Birds did fly
To the sun. The cat can not follow
Them into the vast sky.

Animals with wings can fly away.
Cats are not animals with
Wings. Cats can not fly away. She's
Bound to the living earth.

She sulks off to the sunlit floor;
Making me think that sleep's
A good idea on a morning such
As this one. That if it's deep
I will keep less of what I know.
I can not follow them into
The sky either. What I do know
Is never going to be enough.