The strange cat curls up on our lawn.
Gus sits a yard or two away, wary,
intrigued, paws tucked in close.
A few leaves drift from the linden.
Despite appearances, I can tell
that every hair on that insouciant spine
is studying Gus. Gus turns his head,
seeming to gaze off toward the peonies.
With cats it's instinct. A poet
may take years learning to look away.