And perhaps I'll never see

My window looks out upon a small grassy yard,

and beyond the fence, the houses stretch on,

endlessly uniform, and perfectly rigid.

Upon the ledge of my window

Sits my old, black cat.

She stares outside, beyond the glass,

the orderly mess of our neighbourhood,

every muscle poised, tail twitching,

Alert, focused, yet entranced, mesmerized.

Hours and hours go by as she sits guard,

and I wonder,

What does she see?

Spirits from thousands of years ago?

Does she hear what the wind is whispering?
Can she see into a different time?

I look, I stare, I sit with her,

and I know,

I can't see it.

The sharp intensity fixed into her stare

I just can't acquire.

Day melts into night, seasons float by,

and the cat watches every move

as her story unfolds.