Hushed

But a few days into its waning, the moon casts gentle light. It is low in the southern sky now, and the soft shadows it casts are long, like those of the winter sun. All but one cricket ceased chirping early. The one provided me with my only company through the small hours. Not so much as a breeze intruded upon the feeling of solitude I felt. The cats remained asleep. I left the computer off most of the night so as not to disturb the sick one. The astonishing depth of the quiet led my thoughts to old things, to lonely hours and empty streets and silent rooms long vanished. I committed none of it to paper. There is already too much of such, gathering dust in drawers and boxes unopened for years. This does not feel like a time for gathering the past, but only for wandering in it, aimlessly, with no firm intent. This is a time for biding, and listening to the silence for that small voice which will announce that everything has changed yet again.

Quiet Afternoon

There are patches of high altitude haze today which haven't quite become clouds. They diffuse the sunlight just enough to soften the afternoon, rather in the way a bit of petroleum jelly spread on a camera lens can glamorize the subject of a photograph. A breeze sets the leaves fluttering, and their shadows dance. I have seen butterflies -- more of them in a few minutes than I saw all last spring. The flower beds are buzzing with bees, and I hear a thrush singing. Leaves are beginning to displace the blossoms of the dogwoods, though the shower of pink and white petals has not yet begun. All but a few of the lilies have bloomed, and they cup the light in their voluptuous folds and distill it into brilliant white. The lilacs are past their prime, but still add their soft, cool color to the day. Amid all this exuberance, only the few surviving camellias are sombre, hanging their withering faces toward those already fallen which litter the ground. Despite the splendor of the day, it is the fading camellias which repeatedly draw my eye.

Declining Day

I've been watching the light fade. The rooms are dimmed first, and their contrast diminished as the shafts of light leave the windows and are displaced by shade. Outdoors, the light is still bright, but fragmented by leaves and branches as the sun nears the horizon. The sky seems to grow brighter as the land falls into shade. For a while, the contrast between indoors and out grows greater. The sun sets, and shadow seems to seep from the ground, draining up into the darkening sky. With a last outburst of song, the birds flutter about and then depart. I turn on the lights in the house. They seem faded and weak after the glory of day.

The cat has been sleeping all day, rising a couple of times for a drink of water, then returning to the living room chair she has chosen for her prolonged nap. This is the first time in months that she has spent the day sleeping there, rather than in my room. Asleep, she is much the same picture she has always been, peaceful and relaxed; but on her brief forays to the water bowl her movements are stiff and awkward, and when she mews at all the sound is low and plaintive. She is as faded as the vanished day.

I wonder if she is dreaming, and of what? Maybe she has spent the day stalking birds or gophers, or playing with her four kittens (all but one of whom she has outlived.) Maybe she dreams of her long-ago encounter with a raccoon, from which her back still carries a series of long scars. Maybe she is merely dreaming of her lost youthful agility, running and leaping, climbing trees, walking surefootedly along the narrow rail of a wooden fence. Maybe she dreams of being snuggled and petted, purring with satisfaction after a good meal. I wonder if she has any idea what is happening to her? Yesterday, as the light faded, she went out for a few minutes and sniffed a few of her old familiar haunts and nibbled a bit of grass. That may have been her last trip outdoors.

In a few minutes, I will close the drapes of the dimmed room, and the window, which now reveals only darkness, will be concealed until morning, and the song of crickets will be dampened. The cat lies in the chair, no longer concerned with what I do. She flicks a whisker, and her tail twitches. Does she dream of seeing a tasty mouse? An appealing wad of paper to be batted about? One of my socks to be tossed into the air? However long the night, pleasant dreams, sweet cat.