He peers with wistful gaze at distant scene,
his eyes but narrow slits in sunlight’s gleam.
I wonder if proud felines ever dream?
His whiskers twitch. Has some imaginary prey
skittered through his mind at break of day
or does he really see a mouse across the way?
His ears alert, what noises has he heard
produced by little creatures—feathered, furred?
The convulsions of his tail are quite absurd.
Whatever contemplation is about,
his urgency of call I cannot doubt,
commanding me to come and let him out.
Does instinct born on some primeval shore
instill this restless yearning to explore
the mysteries that lie beyond the door?
© 2019 Alma Barkman