And He Sat With Me

The farmer’s wife found him—
half alive seeking milk
from lifeless teats.
Birthing took the old cat’s life.
He was her last.

The woman hand-weaned him.
Days. Weeks.

Dave brought him to me,
You need a barn cat.
He stayed.

Henry was restraint.
We were restraint.
Had to be.
He was feral.

He sat with me
on the small porch bench…
one foot away.

In winter, we watched snow fall.
In summer, thundering storms.
In autumn, we pondered the silver moon;
listened to the sound of leaves.

I drank tea.
He sipped cream from a saucer.
Henry sat straight, noble.
Purring.

He was large, sinewy—
fast.

He climbed the tree, snatched the nest,
eating the fledglings.
The mother screeched,
circling the tree.

At six months, he brought home a falcon.
How did he capture his predator?

The following morning,
a kaleidoscope of feathers formed a circle;
a talon at the center.
All lay outside my cabin door.

I was appalled,
intrigued, too.

Henry shone his reality,
not in metaphor,
but in blood and guts and beauty.
We sat in the hush of us
listening to raindrops.

Henry is dead.
I woke at 4 a.m.
Made tea.
Still, warmed his milk.

The mountain man knocked.
I found him under the old chestnut.
No harm. One drop of blood under his nose.

It rained all day.
I sat on our bench.

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About the Art

Title: ‘Henry In Winter’
Copyright: 1999 (Photograph)
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan