The Cat

Absorbing sunset colors as I sat, I heard the soft mews of a mournful cat, Lost somewhere in the garden near the lane. For its forlorn owner I sought in vain. Suddenly there came the sounds of quail calls Though quail never feed here as evening falls. Were their cries clues to where the cat was now? I listened, careful, for the next meow. Soon came a cascade of solo singing: Robins, jays, finches sang as if on cue. Which was that silent creeping cat stalking? I would bet those birds wanted to know too. Wrens, larks, and chickadees chimed cheerily; All the while, nary a bird did I see. I searched and I called for my feline friend; Shrugging, I gave up, my search at an end. I turned back to the house, walking slowly, When the cat called from the sycamore tree. I looked up as I thought I heard a dove; There was the high-leaping sight that I love: The silhouetted imitator sly Of the untroubled rosy evening sky; Colorful, charming, and sometimes absurd, A fluttering, mimicking mockingbird.