The cat

The cat,
he peeks out from between the branches
in the cold grey light before dawn.

He gazes out,
waiting to see any hint of anything,
but all he sees is the mist above the street,
and all he hears is the every-so-often grumble of a car.

The street lights shine overhead.

The cat doesn't care,
for cats, he believes, are above the dealings and doings
of lesser mortals.

He sits nonchalantly, for he knows everything about this place:

The poundings of the pavement of schoolchildren,
their hair flying in the cool wind
as they race themselves toward the bus stop.

The bored mutterings of early dog-walkers,
their faces ahead,
their minds elsewhere,
as their charges lap up every sight and scent and sound.

The fiery rays of headlights, ripping through the fog,
like so many bright, white knives, gliding quietly on the air.

The chitterings and chatterings of birds,
calling for the sun to come up now,
as they fly about
the top boughs
of trees bending down
over the hazy asphalt.

The cat knows all:

As the rosy fingers unfasten the blanket of night,
he slinks back into shadow,
knowing full well his time has passed him by.