Where the Wild Things Are

Last night a long time friend and poet asked me to write something for her. She had witnessed a life and death incident down a side road that she told me left her heart bleeding. She said she could talk about it but that her hand couldn't record it, not adequately. She asked if I might listen and gift it back to her.

It had to do with a cat, well, two cats actually and the way she had seen and been seen. I will chew on the details and bear witness in short time, but this morning I think that there is a simple, ageless tale in the telling of the dark feral traits coupled with the dumb-founded forgiveness that comes over us when we least anticipate angelic visitation.

I don't have the words for her, for any of us yet, though I believe they attempted to visit me in dream last night - fearless wild cat pouncing and exciting the response to maim, teeth going in deep and infectious bookended by the arrival of a companion who covered me with slow, methodical, and unconditional empathy.

My friend and I talked about the disappearance of the stalker that springs ferociously from anger and of how we learn again to float. How an unseen stranger might leave water out for the wild things to quietly drink. I think the tiny death of this "scrunched face" feline and the arrival of the second rust tabby in mourning must surely embody the mood swings we all shelter and unfurl - the lashing out and the settling down. Let me see now what justice I can do. To reveal the fury and her siamese twin, compassion.

Two little critters with no home. They meet in the alley. A woman on two legs is present.

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