Sunset Eyes Picture

Set, old sun.
Your years have run
The length of your long life.
Your time is done
Your races won
Grown rusty has the knife.
Slow, old storm.
Has gone the swarm
In wrinkles of the drought
So, mute your harm
The wax is warm
The flame has long gone out.


'Big Cat' is very old. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen? But she is still the most 'wild' cat I ever knew, the fiercest, the strongest. A Norse cat, almost, but too dirty-fighting for Norse mythology. She's bled me a hundred times. She used to lie in wait for me to come up to my top bunkbed, and she'd bite my fingers. But if I was careful, if I let her smell my hand, if I only stroked her where she desired, if I did not jostle her with my feet in the morning ... then she would let me scratch under her chin. She is a hunter, a fighter, and a queen, and though she's 'just a cat', by all means ... many an unbeliever has left my house bloodied for their insolence. I do not claim cats are amazing creatures, that my cat is special, that animals feel as people do. But when that cat is around ... you'd better not think otherwise, at least out loud. She can tell.

The poem's mine, if anyone's curious.
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