i know that, really
it's nothing special
but i like them
they don't dress up like butterflies
and pretend to not be bugs
i know they are always around
they don't materialize with this ancient melancholy
i am not being visited, they want the light
i am in the light
i know there are large bugs in the woods my father's mother owns
so a tattered screen battered by a big thing
doesn't mean it settled for me
or wagged its feelers at me
just because the snores of my mother's now-husband sound surprisingly tiny
through the inner walls of the motor inn
i know i attached that symbol.
the night on that long trip west in winter
I started writing this two nights ago, now. I was sitting outside at 330a, listening to the brook, trying to handle my overwhelmed emotions, writing this damn thing that is now both too long and too short, and thinking about being visited by animals and tricks of light, when suddenly this strong grey cat came down the path, and walked his head right into my leg, back and forth, asking to be thumped, not just petted. He scratched and rolled on the doormat, he looked at the door, demanding to be invited in. He stared at me, seriously. Too seriously. I felt invaded. He laid with his front paws over the edge of the deck and watched the brook. He bonked my leg with his head again until I gave him appropriate pats. He looked back once, then went down the path, around the bushes. Maybe I was supposed to follow.
This morning, I asked the owner about the grey cat, since she already has one friendly motel cat roaming about. She said she'd never seen a grey cat. So I guess I'm allowed to feel like it was the moment, only. For me, only.