Waiting

November brings one last mild day. The gray feral cat loves the sun, and naps for hours by the fence in the small, unshaded terrace, waking only when he hears me come into the yard, to look at me and make sure I don't get too close to him. Placid, reticent, and wary, he seems the perfect complement to the autumnal landscape, and a silent reproach to a pair of chattering squirrels who appear and briefly frolic, then depart.

The surviving lilac bush is all but bare, its small, heart-shaped leaves lying among the larger and more elaborate oak leaves and the still larger, oblong leaves of the walnut tree, now covering almost all of the lawn. Branches and twigs lately exposed are like a stiff, tortuous veil the landscape wears against the sun's prying eye. Afternoon passes, hushed and still, and evening brings only the slightest breezes to dislodge a few more dead leaves.

One more sunny and clear day is due, and then clouds will begin to form again, relieving the sky of its recent monotony. Still, it will be too warm to feel like December. I grow impatient for winter's arrival. Let's get on with it and get it over with. Already, the green shoots and buds of spring lurk in my imagination.

( Sunday Verse )