Mid-January, and
drizzle paints the day
the color of dust,
while crows fuss
in the street, yapping
at the cold like drenched
little dogs, as if their
prickled tune could smudge
the sky from gray to blue.
Within the balmy husk
of the kitchen, splatters
of winter rain seem
to zigzag from wall to wall.
But it's only my oldest cat
lapping the morning's
folly from her coat.
And in the window,
the youngest cat
chases his tail, whirling
against the glass,
huffing at the drapes,
while slapping a plush
snake, which suddenly
plunges to the floor,
where he puddles
in a pool of ebony fur,
dizzy and ecstatic.

Laura Stamps