My cat communes with the mythical, with the infinite and glorious invisible, getting an inside track on the weather and when the sky’s about to change its tune. My cat leaps up and tells me whenever it’s about to rain, by the way she wiggles her whiskers and tilts her head beside the bathroom wall. My cat instinctively knows when it’s going to pour in Noachian proportions, when the neighbours will pound the door and beseech us to let them in, their basements flooded and the water still rising. Silly cat, tumbling around with slanted head and twitching whiskers –
I’m only turning on the shower.
Go back to your bed of sleep – and dream of chasing moths in the garden, the sun brighter than an Orion Nova and your shadow in pursuit as you run. Let’s not talk of storms today despite the warnings you sense from above: Perhaps those sounds you hear are the thunderous applause from the pantheons up from their seats, as Taurus snags the matador; the rumbling that of Hercules in hunger, starving for the love of Deianeira, she who brings his eyes to overflow with spit and drizzle,
a few simple sobs to remind us men and beasts that the deities too feel that which pains us all, blotting out the sun when there’s none to share their sorrow. Or it may only be Aphrodite calling you in for your dinner, unaware you have a home with me, cavorting with the mortals since we bow to your meows and your purrs, our closest, intimate link to both the eternal and the divine.
Andreas Gripp
Andreas Gripp