It’s twilight and the colors fade —
the cat I’m petting
now the same shade
as my hands, my sleeve

She doesn’t like my writing
so she pushes her cold nose
against my hand, my pen, my book.
The visual texture of fur, of firs,
blends into similarity,
I can’t see my words

The turkeys in the trees are quiet now,
I hear crickets, and homebound traffic,
this cat is warm but the air grows colder —
time for a transition.

©Wendy Mulhern
October 2, 2019