nip

it’s 11:07 and the cat is attuned
to the whistling wink of the harvest moon.
flickering for ages on fireflies’ eyes

dancing affably he turns and bows to the grace wind
curling over bookends and leathery
maps of Santorini

wind reverberates answering agreeably
in azure waves splashing against rusty rocks of the hearth
where sanguine feline now reclines

indigneous fidget kitten skitters
to his side and jingles imploringly
asking to curl into his mellow solidarity

his dignified tuxedo spots deflect
her sooty charcols and blustery browns
bedfellows yawn and sprawl with intent

tomorrow they will gather the nip