Mornng Rain and Storm

The gentle patter of morning rain against the window, is like a cat’s padded paw tapping to come in. The spell of sleep is too seductive and I roll over and fall into a dark crevice of dreams that burst into a frenzied fury of bats – fragmented and incoherent surreal permutations of my long and varied life’s experiences. Meanwhile, the cat has become an angry lion, but I am too far below to hear his growls. Awake, the cat is gone. I can’t recall my dream and have no recollection of the lion’s threatening presence. I see only paw prints of large puddles filled with images of scattering clouds and hear only weak distant roars.