A writer lifts her head to the sounds of 
a recorded voice reading poetry: the words 
brush against her ears, seeking a mind 
to settle in. She notices how in the evening, the light 
filters between the trees, fluidly, finding its way 
down to the ground, the way water 
flows from the tap between her fingers, 
and settles, pooling where it falls.

Her cat, settled in her lap, purrs: “Thank you for 
being warm, and kind, and for the new poems 
you are writing while you scratch behind my ears. 
Now, do it again. Again. Just don’t stop.”