My cat comes home-
in the soft light of a late summer afternoon
that sighs like the evening.
I see her as I sit quietly in front of the window.
She slips down from a fence
and crosses the backyard,
passing under the dying
Jerusalem Artichoke,
softly- stealthy and sleek in the aging sun.
I see her black form trot
close to the house;
she places one foot high-
and sets it down.
She pads across the grass
full of intention with each step.
Her back is a straight line;
as it leaves my sight,
the last thing I see is
the small curl
of her tail.