There he is twining morning
glories ‘round the fire hydrant.
Three times he checks the mail
Where’s he now?
from a lumbering tree.
Then he follows the fall of light,
fixed in thought as cicadas croon
melodies that dissipate
on the hot street like a surfer
riding the soft golden wave of summer
trailed by the shadow-weight
weight-shadow shadow shadow
of a sun bleached cat.