the black cat sings

The mischief maker, he's worried. Render of window screens,chewer of cardboard, destroyer of lamps~ his bravado flies out the tear in the screen when the carrier sits at the door, poised for entrapment to the vet.

He'll cry like a baby the whole way  there. He'll cry louder when we arrive. He'll scold me the whole way home.

But, no matter. I'll gladly take his fuss and live with his exuberant destruction.

He grounds me, you see, especially in times of trouble.

And these are times of trouble, filled with impending loss.

Yet, there is gain to be found in the small moments of each day~ the breeze and the pillars of clouds; the rabbit that hops close thinking I am part of the scene; the hummingbird that mistakes my pink shirt for a flower;  the cat~ at home once more, in a different window~ crying to me of his supposed neglect.

There is no trouble. Loss has not come. The black cat sings.

Tucked in to these moments~ the small, small moments~ gain and goodness abound.