Morning Fracus

by SL Ruth

In those moments of early day
when the sun's rays
precede it
I pause to watch
two young cats at play
on the upstairs deck.
Tightrope pawing in and out
between grayed rails
suspended high above the earth
one cat swats a length of spindle
broken from a wooden swing;
it rolls toward a narrow lath
that binds the precipice.
Both cats have yellow and orange striped fur
long and thick and
bathed in morning's golden glow.
When they bend, or take a step,
such as sticking a coarse and curled tongue out
wet on a paw,
their rich winter furs clump
into wedge-shaped valleys
glazed in surreal outline
by the hazed light.
One cat folds, an accordian,
rehearsing a precise score;
his slick, oval, marbled eyes
a shimmering tint of lemon yellow
glints with anticipation;
slits of grained lines dilate
as the cat calculates the prey.
His brother, unsuspecting,
is batting the stick.
A caterpillar tail hooks at
the end, an involuntary and spasmodic
divulger of scheme,
as though divided brain cells can
not control the movement,
or the cat is simply unaware of his tail;
he extends his claws in separate
and tense individual pods, and the nails
plane splinters from the wooden
planks of the deck, like
a racer on jump start,
preparing.
At last, bellows fling wide
and in perfect striped discord
the cat arcs, a feline harmony
as valleys of yellow and orange
pleat into the sputtering attack.
He pounces. Both cats howl.
The stick, nudged from the fray,
rolls to deck's edge, wobbling,
an irresistible invitation to both cats.

Suddenly, the sun blatantly glares
across the instantly
shadow-slatted cats,
a flash, like a candid snapshot,
draws two molded stares
from four glassed eyes.
The dangling stick hangs unattended,
balancing the throbbing call
to cats
no longer there.
The stick slows, then rests,
like an abandoned sundial
pointing toward the rush of the new day
a testament of time passing.
I hurry down the stairs
behind the startled cats
to begin my own day.