Last Saturday in May

This is what it is like on the back 
porch on the last Saturday of May 
with summer in easy reach, July 
beckoning from far beyond and 
August almost a distant dream:

The sun is a lazy drifter moving 
through a grey smear of clouds 
in a bright blue sky and the trees 
are green and dark and there is 
no green like the deep green of 
trees against a blue sky, waking 
the eyes to a morning that will be 
too soon gone

Yellow paint on balusters and rails,
chipping and peeling, grey floor 
littered with empty husks of nuts 
discarded by local squirrels

Soft morning light falls on brick-red 
pavers and a spider spreads her 
gossamer fantasy out from the corner 
of a kitchen window while a sudden 
flash of light signals the sun's 
emergence from behind a thin haze 
of cloud

Sparrows, constantly on the wing, 
flit from one perch to another, 
moving from telephone pole 
to laundry line to lawn, pecking 
at whatever they can find

first, one, 
                then two, 
                                now five, 
                                               now gone.

Is that a cat I see, that dark and feral 
one whose passing is as silent as a
shadow?  

I can see her stalking toward a screen 
of green foliage where she settles in a 
crouch to watch the action.

And I hurry inside to grab pen and 
paper and the cat is moving and the 
yard is green and suddenly empty 
except for a single feather dancing 
in a soft breeze and all that’s left is 
the poem.