I wrote this in 1999, a bit after Wisconsin Winter.

It is a lovesong for a cat.

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Wisconsin Spring

And I for­got spring.

Crows caw black­feather fight fal­cons atop nuded treees, amaz­ing, the crows win. Death gone this day.

Cold with a bite but promised warm the winds, rain­heavy lead­en­grey some morn­ings clouds drops to dim­ple remains of scruffy drifts, impro­vised front porch for me, plas­tic chairs in open garage enjoy­ing pageant and neigh­bor­hood kid, will I pledge to sup­port his three-​​hour jumprope cam­paign against heart dis­ease? Yes. Why not? It is young, the world, and he will not die of ironic heart attack.

Cold gone! This day!

Open win­dows breeze scuffs across and Mira meows at me as I stand oppo­site her, screen keep­ing her pointeared pris­oned and birds free, twit­ter­ing flittering.

Knowing, yes, prob­a­bly, this place where I stand will have her flesh — she is old and get­ting a lit­tle older with each season —

But now is green and no mourn­ing; all morning

And now flit the but­ter­flies, open the blos­soms, buzz the hor­nets and redo­r­ange wing the lady­bugs, and all is young here now and.

And meow.

Spring as they do, and known sum­mer and fore­boded autumn and final cold win­ter once more, chill silence.

Then, insis­tent, again.

Meow.

Chasing the red ball together, I dance with my love; I dance with my Mira.

Dance, dance this day.

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