we hear her before we see her, her last spill hammering the roof and windows, then
watch her shaking her tail for hours around the orchard, whipping up the long leaves
on the cherry trees, knocking over the ficus on the porch, the cat runs back in
as soon as she’s run outside, her own tail lifted in alarm and we lift our
faces to the sky, the sun that seems to ride the wind the way an acrobat at a circus
rides a galloping horse around and around the ring until there’s no breath
left in the rider, the horse and the crowd too, clapping now it’s over
a black umbrella
blows inside out—too late now
to say you’re sorry
Bio: Lynne Rees
