Monday, June 30, 2003

At 5 a.m. I stepped out to the eastern porch and called for Chango, our cat. It was foggy. A cat could walk across the pasture unseen. Hills and stars, homes and trees, everything was shrouded and still. What could be seen was an infinite mist, droplets of water hovering in the air, suspended in space. And Chango did not step out of the fog. He did not come home to sit in the worn chair. He did not appear from behind the garage, and lay across the path, rolling and stretching. I called his name softly and peered across the lawn, toward the bottom fence. I listened for the neighbor's dog, coyotes, Chango's conversational meow. I sat on the step, and brought my legs under my nightgown. It could have been cold, but it wasn't. It could have been night, but was dawn. It was quiet and still, and only the fog could be heard; it made the sound of reverence and calm. Somewhere, sleek and black, Chango mocked the darkness and the predators. Somewhere in the fog our cat walked passed sleeping dogs, and restless rabbits. His green eyes wide open, his tail and ears perked and alert, Chango stayed out all night.

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