Morning sun. I purr
and lick my way along the
brown hair of my limbs,
my tongue scratching, elegant.
I stretch a polished claw
and the soft grass under me shifts
in the warm breeze,
and the doting flies, humming in
their hungry tempers, circle the
long, stretch of my whisker,
and the green in my eye moves from
insect to bird to mouse
to the happy, happy morning sun.
I sleep through the car honks, machinery,
distant voices.
I nip an ant in between my teeth,
watch the air run through the wind chimes,
the flick of my tail.