White Tale

Every morning she is there. She positions herself, sphinx like, facing east, to catch the first morning rays of the sun. Her hair flutters in the breeze. The sun reflects a dazzling white from her hair. Her muscles ripple with vibrant health and beauty. In a word she is breathtaking.

She sees me pass, moving only her eyes. We both know it will be the only exchange between us until tomorrow. The silent understanding has become a ritual. She watches me disappear and returns to her thoughts.

I can only speculate about her night sorties. Quests of unknown destination and purpose must fill her nights. Her secret thoughts are concealed behind quiet eyes. Her body does not communicate even a trace of her wishes.

The only thing I am sure of is her presence. Her inner-being is left to conjecture. She must have thoughts that inspire or encourage? Does she have dreams of better days ahead? Some say she lives only in the moment, not connected to anything I dare call hope. All brain power is focused on the here and now, leaving what is yet to be untouched. If there is truth in this theory, existence without expectations would be thorny.

Whichever time she lives in, she does well. She salutes the rising sun when it shines and waits for its return. She is the finest feline I know, even though I’ve never touched her.