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by JBMulligan
The black cat at night
among tree-shadows flickers
and shifts: a candle.
Its voice, in the breeze,
flutters and trembles, the slow
strum of a guitar.
The winter's coming.
It rubs the legs of mountains
under Northern stars.
Gathering moments
with the body, not the soul:
good wood for a fire.
Once more, the cat says
the word that to cats means: good.
It says it again.