The old cat watches
birds at the feeder,
out of reach, of course,
and yet he would have,
years ago, lunged at them,
stalked along light rays,
felt the lion within,
the extension of his claws,
the roar he heard
only in his head
that toppled the sun.
He would have been
the dragon of feathers,
offered birdsong
as prayer and supplication,
the lord of life and death
above the sunflower seeds.
He remembers none of this.
He notices the shadows
of small airborne things
as if they were floaters
in front of his eyes,
specks of an internal dust.
He stretches full length
and gives thanks for
the softness of carpet
and the heat of sunlight,
his snores but dim echoes
of a faded thunder.
