I don’t remember cats being so small and so light. Their fur, thin, their whiskers shooting stars.
There is nothing the flies won’t investigate. They land and rub their annoying little legs together. Their fast wings harangue. I know a new tired. One that begins in the belly. One that lets the flies land. I already feel the wet heat of the day. The rooster’s dawn calling. A cat sits and fits on my small open journal. I had nine cats once. The lawn here, glistening with dew, is plantain and clover.
Grandma, 97, inside, with her freshly incised wrist, tidies up around the house. I am outside. On the concrete pathway. Transcribing my scribbling.
Last night, a cool breeze. We feed the animals and pet each one. Sometimes we get kisses. We lift bales of hay and break off flakes and spread them around for the horses who stretch their legs and roll onto their backs. Today we clean the stalls.
The loudest of the critters are the flies, and the crickets, and the rooster. But there are over one hundred animals here. Last night, a small storm. Lighting. The shape of things in the dark revealed. Horses huddle. A small leaf wiggles like a seesaw. Cats close in on me. Comfortable, they sniff my toes, my coffee cup, my computer. This one tastes creatine in the bottom of the cup and doesn’t return for more. They lick —cfdv3qA themselves, me, I feel the comb of their tongues. Scritchy scratchy.
They type ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,.
They type 8b n\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
A tail swishes across my screen.
I can see far, from here on the ground.
Horses on the other side and goats on another, but nowhere to sit. Unless in shit. And anyway, this isn’t a place to sit. There is always work to do on a farm.
Gray and white kitty gets closer and closer. Like a feather on my legs, except for the licking. Flies land and I twitch. Ants carry ants. The old dog thumps inside. Thumps through the night. Thump, thumps. There will be no sleeping here for any of us.